Survivor
Outlast, Outwit, Outrun
By Linda Ford
Richard Kimble is walking down the main street of a small town in eastern Maryland. The weather is warm, the sun bright in the sky, but the gathering clouds hold the promise of a thunderstorm. He pauses to unzip his jacket and brush the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He is hungry and tired but a survey of the contents of his pockets reveals only a few coins. He stares at them as he feels an all too familiar rumbling in his stomach and drops them back in his pants pocket. With forced optimism, he pushes open the door of a hot dog shop.
Two men at the counter are engrossed in conversation. One looks up as Kimble enters and appears to be staring at him, but the man's next words reassure him.
"There goes Millie Hemphill. Shame about John. She must find it hard keeping up that big place of theirs. I wonder how long she'll be able to stay out there alone. I told her she should hire some help."
Relieved he is not the object of the man's attention, Kimble turns to look out the window and sees an elderly woman come out of a side street and enter the grocery store across the street. Then his attention is drawn back to the men's conversation.
"What I hear, she'll stick it out awhile. I doubt she'll be in any hurry to move in with that son-in-law of hers."
The first man nods in agreement. Throwing some bills on the counter, he turns to leave. The other man follows. The waitress comes over to collect the change and notices the tip. "Thanks, Sam," she calls after him.
She turns and finally notices Kimble. "Can I get you something?"
"Uh, nothing. I mean, I'm looking for work."
"Oh," she says, losing interest. "That's up to Jack. He's in the kitchen. Through that door." She turns away to grab a rag and starts to clean off the counter. Dismissed, Kimble heads for the kitchen, only to stop inside the door as a bald red-faced man comes in from the alley, swearing profusely.
"Damn garbage collectors. They make a bigger mess…" He stops in mid-sentence as he sees Kimble. "What do you want?"
"I..uh..I'm looking for work."
"Yeah, well, try the garbage collector - they may need someone after I get done complaining! Go on, get out of here. I can't help you," he finishes gruffly, gesturing toward the door for emphasis. He looks at his hands in disgust and brushes past Kimble to disappear into the restroom. Kimble sighs and turns to leave, pausing as he spots the remains of a hot dog and fries on a plate by the dish washer. Grabbing his handkerchief, he wraps up the food and puts it in his pocket hastily. He turns and walks out as the owner comes out of the restroom and stares after him, shaking his head before he turns back to the kitchen. He tosses the remaining food on the plates in the garbage disposal and throws plates and silverware into the dishwasher with a practiced, efficient motion before turning back to his office.
Out on the street, Kimble turns down a nearby alley and looks around cautiously before pulling out the handkerchief and wolfing down the food. The dry bun makes him thirsty. He spots a water fountain in a park up the street and walks over to take a long drink, before sinking down on a nearby bench in the shade to contemplate his next move. He glances up at the sun, lowering in the late afternoon sky. Discouraged, he closes his eyes for a brief moment.
He drifts into sleep and a familiar nightmare. He is running down a highway, chased by police cars, their sirens wailing. With a startled jerk, he comes fully awake only to see his nightmare seemingly turning into reality. At the sight of a police car pulling up to the sidewalk in front of him, he feels a rush of adrenelin and watches anxiously as the driver gets out and walks in his direction. Outwardly composed but inwardly braced to run, he finds himself holding his breath as the man approaches.
But the policeman walks past him without a sideward glance. "Sheriff Taylor!" he shouts, and Kimble looks up the street to see another man turn and wave in response.
Kimble remains motionless, careful not to call attention to himself. He strains to hear their conversation, but makes out only the words "…robbed a convenience store…male, dark hair, about 6 feet, 180 pounds…" Its enough. He doesn't wait to hear anymore, but gets up with a studied carefree motion, scanning the street automatically. A pick-up truck on a near-by side street catches his eye, and he manages to jump in the back of the truck unseen before the driver returns. She walks around the back of the truck and slips in the driver's seat. In minutes, the truck passes the city limits and heads out into the countryside.
End of prologue
Outside of town
Kimble is curled up in the back of the pickup truck at it drives down a narrow two-lane gravel driveway. The look of discomfort on his face reflects the fact that the bumpy ride is making him increasingly carsick. The hot dog and fries feel like lead in his stomach.
The truck slows down as the driver pulls to a stop in front of a farmhouse. Hearing the car door slam shut and a dog's welcoming bark, Kimble cautiously peers over the rim to see the driver greeted by an exuberant German shepherd. With surprise he recognizes the old woman in town.
She reaches down to pet the dog affectionately. "Oh, stop your barking, Sarge! I know I'm late with your supper. Come on, let's go get it!" The dog goes leaping ahead of her into the house as she carries in the groceries.
Relieved at the dog's disappearance, Kimble shakily climbs over the edge of the truck and falls to the ground only to find that standing up only makes his nausea worse. He manages to find cover behind the side of a nearby barn before vomiting violently. At last his stomach is empty and the nausea subsides. White-faced and weak-kneed, he glances upward at a darkening sky. There is a flash of lightening and what starts as a few scattered drops quickly turns into a downpour. Hit by a wave of chills, Kimble slips inside the barn and leans against a nearby stall, causing the chestnut stallion inside to give a startled neigh. A horse blanket lies folded carefully over the edge of one of the neighboring stalls. He grabs it. The gray mare inside the stall knickers at him as he retreats to a far corner where he sinks onto some loose straw and covers himself with the blanket, thankful for its warmth. Soon he drifts into a restless sleep.
An hour later:
The old woman emerges from the house. She is white-haired and in her mid-seventies and walks with a brisk, determined step. The dog excitedly follows her outside.
"Scoot," she yells at him, with a wave of her hand. "Finish what you have to do before the rain kicks up again."
The dog runs off into the bushes, while the woman pauses to drink in the smells after the fresh rain, noticing the wind is blowing harder again. The dog bounds back into view, interrupting her thoughts. "Good boy, let's go check on the horses so we can get back inside." She turns toward the barn and the dog scampers after her.
As soon as they enter, the dog senses the presence of a stranger and begins to growl softly. The sound of Kimble stirring turns the growling to sharp barks, while the horses begin to neigh nervously.
"What is it, Sarge?" The woman looks around anxiously. A flash of lightning and a simultaneous crack of thunder cause her to jump as rain begins to fall and turns quickly into another downpour beating on the roof. She turns toward the corner of the barn as Kimble, startled by the noise, comes fully awake.
"What are you doing trespassing in my barn?" the woman shouts over the sound of the rain pelting the roof with a false show of bravado. She moves closer to the barking dog for protection and looks around for a weapon, spotting a pitchfork across the barn. Kimble eyes the dog warily. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slowly throws off the blanket, so as not to alarm the dog further. "I was feeling sick and I came in to get out of the rain."
Kimble rises weakly to his feet, keeping as far as he can from the dog. "I'm sorry to bother you." He edges toward the door, but standing up brings a return of the nausea and he barely reaches the door before being overwhelmed by another fit of vomiting that wracks his already empty stomach.
Still on her guard, the woman eyes the downpour outside and takes pity on the obviously sick man. "Well, I guess you are sick…. Well, I won't send a sick man out into this rain…You can stay out here for the night. There's a cot in the side room over there. We…use it when the mare's in foal."
White-faced, Kimble looks up weakly and gives her a look of gratitude. Keeping the dog close beside her, the woman points at a nearby shelf. "There's a clean blanket up there." She remains at a distance while he reaches for it and attempts to find a comfortable position on the rough bed. "Thanks," he mumbles.
She says pointedly to the dog, "You sleep out here tonight, Sarge." Keeping a wary eye on the stranger, the dog obediently curls up on the floor but remains watchful. "Good boy." The woman takes the other blanket and uses it as a cover as she runs across the yard and into the house. Locking the door securely behind her, she heads up the stairs only to stop as the phone rings.
A brief and mostly one-sided conversation leaves her with a frown on her face as she hangs up the phone. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she glances out the window and sees the rain has quit for the night. She opens her bedroom window to let in the fresh air and stands there for a while, long enough to hear the stranger outside get up twice more to empty his stomach. At last she climbs into bed and drifts off to sleep.
Early next morning:
The old woman, dressed in blue jeans and a faded flannel shirt, crosses the yard to the barn in the early morning light. The dog looks up as she enters and she peers in the side room to see Kimble still asleep, the relaxed look on his face making him appear disarmingly non-threatening. She turns aside and lifts the catch on the nearest stall, where a dark chestnut stallion walks over to nuzzle her as she scoops up a bucket of feed and pours it in his feedbox. She looks up as Kimble stirs awake and the dog looks up alertly, but makes no sound. Surprised by the dog’s actions, she addresses Kimble. "You're feeling better then," she says, looking his way.
"Yes, ma'am. I think I had a mild case of food poisoning." He brushes some straw from his hair and stands up. The dog barks once but does not stir. The woman looks at his cautious acceptance of the stranger and decides to trust the dog’s instinct.
"Didn't look too mild," she says as she enters the second stall and the stallion inside moves over to reach for the grain before she can pour it into his feedbox. She rubs his neck affectionately as he brushes against her.
Kimble notices a loose catch on the stall, and remembers the conversation in the restaurant. "I’d like to repay you for letting me spend the night…I could mend that catch for you." She considers his offer briefly, but discards it. “No need. The bed was empty."
"He's a beautiful animal," Kimble says, looking at the horse with appreciation. He reaches out to rub his flanks, but stops short and drops down to examine the animal's leg instead. "There's some swelling here. It feels warm."
The woman looks down in surprise. "How could I have missed that! There's some liniment on the shelf in here." She goes into the other room, and searches among a number of tubes on the shelf. Kimble follows her and notices her obviously straining to read the fine lettering. Reaching over her shoulder, he reaches for one of the tubes. Recognizing the ingredients, he turns to her. "Is this it?"
"Yes, I think so."
Kimble returns to the horse and gently applies the ointment as the woman looks on, obviously considering something. "You have a way with animals. King doesn't usually take to strangers." She looks at the horse with obvious pride and affection. "My husband loved this horse. He raised him from a colt. Won some blue ribbons with him. You know something about horses?"
"Some. My best friend in junior high used to invite me out to his grandparent's farm. I learned to ride and muck out a stable."
"You know how to mend fence?"
"Sure."
"I suppose I do need some work done around here. Since John…My daughter’s will be here in a few days. I don’t want the place to look too neglected. " She eyes Kimble’s suitcase beside the makeshift bed. It'll just be for a few days. I can’t pay much - room and board and $30 a day," she adds, expecting an argument.
"That would be fine."
"Good. You can start by getting some water for the horses and mucking out the stalls. When you're done, I expect you'll be ready for some breakfast."
"Yes, ma'am, I think I will."
In the living room of a large apartment, a week later
A woman comes out of the bedroom, suitcase in hand, to find a young boy, about 13 years old lying on the couch, absorbed in a video game. "Larry, I told you to get ready to go. Have you finished packing?"
The boy looks up. "I don't want to go. I want to stay here."
A man walks briskly into the room. "You mind Sharon, Larry. We've been over this before and its all arranged." The boy gives him a sour look. "Your grandmother has agreed to let you stay with her while we're away."
"But Dad! I'll miss the end of baseball season! And who wants to spend two weeks on some boring old farm!"
"I said its settled!" his father barks. Impatiently he reaches into his coat pocket. "You can take the other camera phone with you so you won't be totally cut off from civilization!"
Realizing an argument is useless, the boy grudgingly takes the phone and heads into the bedroom.
That afternoon
An SUV sits in front of the farmhouse. The driver, looking out of place in a suit and tie, pulls a suitcase out of the vehicle and hands it to Larry, then turns to Millie. "We really appreciate you keeping Larry with you while we go to the conference, Mother. He's been looking forward to it."
Millie eyes the boy, engrossed in pressing buttons on his cell phone, and gives his father a dubious look before turning to speak to her daughter as she comes out on the porch.
"Nothing ever changes out here, does it Mother?" Behind her, Larry makes a disgusted face and wanders off to sit on the porch swing. She looks over at him with a worried frown, then turns back to Millie.
"Mother, who was the man I saw mending fence when we drove in? You're not trying to fix the place up, are you? I thought we discussed you coming to live with us now that Dad is gone."
"I haven't decided that yet." Forestalling an argument, her mother continues quickly, "In any case, the place will bring a better price if it's in running condition."
"But who is he?"
"He was recommended by a friend of mine in town." She looks pointedly at her watch. "Now, you two better hurry or you'll miss your plane." Her daughter gives her a brief hug and kiss before getting in the car. With a quick wave to Larry, they drive away.
As the dust in the road settles, Millie looks over at the boy. "Larry, why don't you put down whatever that is and come out to the barn. I'll introduce you to the horses." Reluctantly, Larry pockets his cell phone and follows her out to the barn.
Inside, Millie is startled to see Kimble.
"I didn't see you come back."
Kimble shrugs. "I came in the back way."
"Well, this is my grandson, Larry. Larry, this is Don Thompson. He's doing some work for me around the farm." She turns back to Kimble. "Larry is staying with me for a few weeks. I thought he could get to know the horses." The boy makes a hurried move and frightens the mare in the nearby stall, who begins to shake her head nervously. Frightened, Larry grabs a whip off the nearby wall. The horse sees it and paws the ground, then rears and neighs loudly. Millie reaches calmly for the whip and drops it in a corner, out of sight. "Never show Kelly Girl the whip!" she says, then adds less sharply, "She was beaten with a whip by her previous owner. It took a long time for your grandfather to teach her to trust humans again."
Embarrassed at his show of fear, Larry turns to leave and says brusquely. "I think I'll go back in the house."
Millie watches him go. "Oh, dear, I didn't mean to sound so critical!"
"Give him time," Kimble tries to reassure her.
Millie sighs. "I suppose you're right. My daughter married three monthes ago. I'm afraid she's finding being a stepmother harder than she expected. This trip of hers is partly a delayed honeymoon." She reaches out to pat King. "I guess being a step-grandmother is a little harder than I thought, too."
"He'll come around."
Millie gives him a weak smile and proceeds to explain a few more odd jobs that need done.
Later that afternoon
Kimble walks around the side of the house and notices Larry engrossed in a game on the internet on his cell phone. "Larry, how about helping me clean up in the barn."
"I'm busy."
"Suit yourself," he answers with a shrug. "Your grandmother thought you might like to ride King. But you'll have to get to know him first. Spending time in the barn is the best way to do that." He walks on toward the barn without waiting for a response.
Minutes later, Kimble looks up to see Larry standing in the doorway. "Come on in. I'll show you how to brush his coat."
In the kitchen
Millie, Larry, and Kimble are seated around the supper table. Larry is telling her about his day.
"And Mr. Thompson showed me how to brush down King. I really made his coat shine. Tomorrow, I'm going to try exercising him."
"Good. He hasn't been ridden since John…" She reaches for a bowl of apples on the kitchen counter. "Why don't you take the horses an apple. Your grandfather always did that in the evening. They look forward to it."
"OK. Mr. Thompson showed me how to feed them. Hand out flat so the horse doesn't eat your fingers!" Without hesitating, Larry cradles some apples in his arms and runs out of the house.
Millie looks at Kimble gratefully. "Thanks for letting him help you. You're good with him. Like John would have been. My husband." she explains. "He died 6 months ago…." She toys with a spoon on the table. "I know its silly, but sometimes I still look up and expect him to walk right through that door." Embarrassed at having shown her emotions, she changes the subject. "Are you married, Don?"
"I was."
She looks over at the calendar, where a date is circled in red. "Next week would have been our 55th anniversary." She pauses. "All those years together. I guess I feel like a piece of me died with him." She looks over at Kimble, "Were you married long?"
"Not long enough." She looks at him in surprise as Kimble pushes back his plate and moves to stand up, ending the conversation. "I better go see if Larry is getting along OK."
Two days later
Kimble leaves the barn after finishing the chores and walks into the house. He looks around in surprise as he hears music and follows the sound into the living room. Millie and Larry are standing beside an old record player, sorting through old records. Larry looks up.
"Mr. Thompson. Look what grandma has. It's a .. "
"Victrola." Millie finishes for him.
"Yeah, a victrola. Its like an old-fashioned CD player. You put these plates with grooves on here and put this needle on the edge and it plays music. You have to wind it with a crank!" The record finishes playing with a gentle hiss. Larry removes the record, replacing it with another one after turning the crank vigorously a few times.
Millie looks up in surprise. "Oh my," she says with a smile. "It's the 'Tennessee Waltz'. That was our song, your grandfather and I. We danced to that the night we met. He called me his 'darlin' and he said he would never let anyone steal me away." With a dreamy look on her face, she starts to waltz around the room, in time to the music. Suddenly, Kimble reaches out to hold her hand. Together they waltz around the room without speaking, eyes closed, until the music comes to a stop.
Millie looks up and gives him a grateful smile. "Thank you."
Kimble nods and walks out of the room.
Larry looks surprised. "Why did he leave? There are lots more records."
"Maybe he's had enough dancing." She reaches for another record.
Larry looks at her with curiousity. "Why were you dancing with your eyes closed?"
"Oh, I guess I was imagining I was dancing with your grandfather again."
"I wonder who Mr. Thompson thought he was dancing with. I'm going to go ask him!"
"Leave him be," Millie says with understanding. "She reaches for another record. Let's put this one on. I'll teach you a polka."
"What's a polka?"
Millie smiles. "You'll see."
In town, the sheriff's office, next morning
The sheriff is seated at his desk, scanning a news article about a prison escape in Pennsylvania.
"Two of the escaped convicts involved in the prison escape from the state penitentiary were captured early this morning outside of Manchester, Maryland, while attempting to rob a local home, apparently looking for food. The third man, Nick Workley, considered to be the most dangerous of the three, escaped after wounding two policeman in a heated gunfight. Workley was serving life-in-prison for grand larceny and manslaughter after a string of robberies across the state that left three people dead and several wounded.
Workley is 40 years old, slight of build, with dark hair, height 6 feet, weight 180 pounds. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. Anyone seeing a man of this description should contact the state police at 555-928-1117."
He looks up as his deputy comes in. "You really think he's headed this way, Sheriff?" he asks with obvious relish.
"I hope not. He's a bad one. But the state police seem to think so. They just contacted me. They'll be here later this morning to fill us in on the manhunt. Looks like you may get some of that 'excitement' you were looking for when you signed up for the job, Deputy White."
At the farm
Larry is standing out in the field, brushing down the grey mare, when his cell phone rings. The mare scampers away in alarm and he walks over to the fence to watch Kimble exercising King as he answers the phone. "Dad? Yeah, I'm having a great time! Grandma let me play these neat old records on the victrola and she taught me to polka. And she makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. And Mr. Thompson is going to let me ride King today, all by myself!"
"Slow down, son. Who is King?"
"King is my father's prizewinning stallion," Sharon chimes in. "Larry are you sure you can handle him?"
"Sure. I've been taking care of him all week. See, Dad. Isn't he beautiful?" Larry holds up the picture phone so his father will be able to see the stallion running across the nearby field.
He runs up to Kimble and pushes him with his head affectionately.
On the other end of the phone, his father stares at the screen.
"Larry, who is that man with King?"
"Mr. Thompson. He works for grandma."
"He's still there?" Sharon says in surprise. "I thought he was only doing a few odd jobs!"
Her husband ignores her and stares at the phone as though seeing a ghost. Finally he says abruptly. "We have to go, son. You be careful."
"I will."
As the screen goes blank, Sharon turns to her husband. "What's wrong?"
"That man name isn't Thompson. Its Kimble. Richard Kimble."
The Sheriff's office
Sheriff Taylor is in a large meeting room, engrossed in conversation with the State Police. The table is littered with maps and empty coffee cups. The meeting ends and the policeman leaves. The sheriff begins to clear away the clutter and looks up in surprise as his deputy, clearly excited, motions him into the office.
"Phone call for you, Sheriff. Some man, says he’s a doctor, calls himself Larry Kettner. He's calling about an escaped convict. Different name, though. Kimble. I thought you'ld want to know."
The sheriff takes the phone. "Dr. Kettner. This is Sheriff Taylor."
"Sheriff? I just got off the phone with my son. An escaped murderer named Richard Kimble is at my mother-in-law's house, masquerading as a handyman."
The sheriff listens alertly. "Are you sure the man's name is Kimble? Can you describe him?"
"He's early forties, about 6 feet tall. He has dark hair now."
"You said you were on the phone with your son? How did…?"
"We have camera phones." Kettner's impatience is clear in his voice.
"Dr. Kettner, are you positive about the name? We are in the middle of a manhunt for a convict who escaped two weeks ago from the state penitentiary. He's a dangerous man. Name of Workley. Could he be the man you saw?…"
"It's Kimble, I tell you. We spent two years together at Chicago General doing our residency. I don't know who that manhunt of yours is looking for, but I want you to go over there and protect my son. He's at the Hemphill farm on Camp Horn Rd, off Rt. 7."
"All right, Dr. Kettner. We'll look into it."
The sheriff hands the phone to the deputy who eagerly questions him. "What's it about, Sheriff? Is it Workley?"
"I don't know. Check the files, see if you can find anything on a man named Richard Kimble, wanted for murder. Let me know as soon as you find anything."
At the farm
Kimble opens the back of the pick-up truck and picks up a heavy bag of oats. He carries it into the corner of the barn and drops it on the floor. As he lifts his head up, he finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
"That's right! Just move nice and slow," the man holding the gun drawls.
Kimble's gaze searches for a weapon in the barn.
"Don't even think about it!" the man says with a cold smile. "Or I will blow your head off. I see I have your attention. Now here is what I want – food and a ride out of here across the state line. And you’re going to give it to me. You understand?"
Kimble tries to buy some time to think. "Go get it! Now!" the man orders impatiently, gesturing towards the house with the gun.
Kimble slowly backs out of the barn and walks toward the house. As he enters the living room, he finds Millie and Larry watching a news report on the prison break. They look up startled, then relax as they realize it is him.
Kimble reaches for the phone, only to put it down again as he realizes it is dead. "Larry," he says calmly, "I want you to get your cell phone and dial '911'. Tell them we have an emergency. Then I want you and your grandmother to stay in the house." His actions get their full attention. Millie gives him a frightened look while Larry looks out the window and then sprints upstairs.
Kimble goes into the kitchen and pulls some food from the refrigerator and puts in a discarded grocery bag. He jumps as he hears a gunshot and runs toward the living room, only to find Workley blocking the doorway. He has a tight grip on Larry's wrist and with his other hand he waves the cell phone as though at a naughty child. "Now I thought I could trust you." He smashes the phone against the wall, where it shatters into pieces.
"He shot Sarge, Mr. Thompson. I think he's dead!" Larry cries in a terrified voice.
Workley grabs the revolver from his waist and points it at Kimble. "Give me the food!"
At the sheriff's office
Sheriff Taylor leaves the meeting room, ready for a break. He is reaching for his coat when his deputy comes over.
"I found this, sheriff – old wanted poster. Looks like there is an escaped murderer named Kimble and he's a doctor. You think Kettner's right? That he's here?"
Taylor looks over the picture of Richard Kimble with a frown. "I don't know what to think," he sighs. "I know I'm tired and I have a long night ahead of me tracking down another convict that's already injured two people. But I better check it out. Millie Hemphill is out on that farm all alone."
"What if it’s Workley, Sheriff? Descriptions about the same? Could be dangerous.You want me to come with you?" the deputy asks eagerly.
"No, I need you here. It can’t be Workley. Sam said Millie told him she had hired someone to do some work around the place a week ago. And if it turns out this Kimble is out there, I don't want to raise his suspicions. I'll call you when I find out. Meanwhile, I’ll just pay a friendly social call on Millie."
"I'll be right here. You be careful, Sheriff."
20 minutes later
Workley is finishing a sandwich as Kimble cleans up after doing the best he can to help Sarge, who is whimpering in pain. He finishes and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "You do nice work, Doc. Much obliged for the clean shirt. Now let's take that ride. You've wasted enough time on the dog. You're coming, too" he adds pointing the gun at Larry.
Kimble moves in front of Larry. "The boy stays here."
"No, Doc, he comes with us. Or else…" Suddenly his eyes dart to the window as an SUV pulls up in front of the house. "Who the hell is that?" He throws an angry, suspicious look at Kimble and runs to the window just as the Sheriff gets out of the car. Kimble jumps involuntarily as Workley's gun goes off. A red blotch appears on Taylor's shoulder and he shudders and drops to the ground. Kimble instinctively rushes outside to help as Workley pulls Larry out onto the porch.
Kimble kneels down by the wounded man, who looks at him in recognition. "Kimble, " he says, with a glance over his shoulder at Workley. "I should have known the two of you would be together."
Workley glances at Kimble in surprise and demands, "Why, who are you?"
"His name is Richard Kimble. He's a murderer, just like you."
Workley takes a quick look at Kimble and laughs in disbelief. "Him? Why…Wait a minute. Did you say Richard Kimble?" He turns to look at him. "The Richard Kimble?" He breaks into an astonished laugh. "I don't believe it. Man, back on the cell block, you are a legend! The man the cops can't catch!"
Kimble sees an opportunity and reacts swiftly. He seizes an astonished Workley and pushes him roughly up against the car. "That's right!" he says through clenched teeth. "I'm Richard Kimble. I've spent the last three years running and now you and your bumbling friends have led the cops straight to my hideaway! Give me that!" He seizes the revolver from Workley and pushes it into his coat pocket. "First rule of survival: Never shoot a cop! It brings a swarm of them after you. You keep a low profile. Now if you want to survive, you do what I say!"
The convict is thoroughly cowed. "Yes, sir!"
Kimble looks down as the sheriff, taking advantage of the distraction, tries to reach for his gun that has fallen under the car. Workley grabs it before Kimble can stop him. With a gun in his hand again, Workley regains his arrogance. He reaches for Larry, who is still on the porch, too frightened to move. Workley grabs him securely.
Kimble tries to regain control of the situation. He quickly searches the sheriff for handcuffs and cell phone, pocketing the phone and slipping the cuffs on Taylor, careful to not cause any further bleeding. He rips off his tie to bind his feet. Then he inspects the gunshot wound. "I'm going to patch him up."
"What for?" Workley demands.
"The only thing worse than shooting a cop is killing one. Just shut up and do what I say!" Without a backward glance, Kimble goes in the house, but Workley follows him. "I'll tie up the old lady and the boy," he offers eagerly. Kimble hesitates, then realizes it will be necessary to keep Workley convinced and will keep him occupied. He tries to reassure Larry with his eyes, but it is Millie who notices first. "Let's do as they say, Larry," she says, willingly submitting. Workley searches through the kitchen drawers until he finds some twine and begins tying Millie to one of the kitchen chairs, while Kimble, obviously torn, finds some bandages in the bathroom cupboard and goes back outside.
Once there, he does the best job he can to bandage Taylor's wound, while the sheriff watches him in silence, but cannot hide the pain in his face.
Kimble finishes his makeshift bandage and looks at Workley with added concern. "You've lost a lot of blood. I've do my best to get you some help."
The sheriff looks at him and says in a shaky voice, "Don't think helping me will make any difference, Kimble. I'll hunt you both down if I can..."
"I know you will," Kimble tells him before rising and turning toward the house. The sheriff watches him go before losing consciousness.
Kimble enters the kitchen and is startled to find Millie bound to a kitchen chair, while Workley is standing with his gun on Larry. "Why aren't you finished? The sheriff passed out. Its time to go."
The convict looks at him defiantly. "I say we take the kid with us."
"No!" Kimble explodes. "You only take a hostage when you're trapped. He'll only slow us down. You go get the food! I'll take care of the boy."
While Workley's back is turned, Kimble takes the remaining ropes and ties up Larry, careful to keep the ropes loose. He kneels behind Larry and slips Tucker's small knife into his hand. Larry fingers it in surprise and looks Kimble in the eye before nodding imperceptibly. He watches as Kimble slips the sheriff's cell phone into a basket of flowers on the kitchen counter. "Let's go!" he orders Workley, anxious to get him out of the kitchen.
Outside, Workley heads for the sheriff's car, stepping over the body of the unconscious sheriff.. "Looks like you wasted your time," he says with a sneer. "Let's take the SUV."
Kimble looks at him in scorn. "You see that?" he asks, pointing at the dashboard. "That's a GPS. Global positioning system. The police can locate that car anywhere in the world. When the sheriff doesn't report in, they'll do just that. They may be heading here right now."
Workley casts a worried look at the main road.
"We'll go cross country. By horseback," Kimble says in a voice that brooks no discussion. As Workley hesitates, he looks back at him. "You can ride, can't you?"
"Sure." With false bravado, he follows Kimble to the barn and watches as he saddles the horses.
"You take the mare," Kimble hands him the reins.
"She doesn't look very fast," he objects, eyeing the stallion.
"King won't let a stranger on his back," Kimble counters.
Workley casts him a resentful look, clearly tired of taking orders. He spots the whip still lying in the corner where Millie dropped it and reaches for it. Kimble barely has time to shield it from the mare's view by pretending to adjust her bridle. His mind races as he tries to think of a way to use it to his advantage.
The two men mount and Kimble leads the way outside, where they sees two police cars rapidly approaching down the main road, lights flashing.
Kimble reacts instantly, swinging the horse around toward the open field. Workley moves to follow him, but the mare resists him. Kimble looks back over his shoulder. "Use the whip!" he shouts at him. He kicks the stallion in the ribs, urging him to a gallop. Behind him, the desparate convict reaches for the whip, bringing it down hard on the mare's flank. She screams, twisting and bucking and runs away as Workley falls to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, favoring his left leg, as the first squad car screeches to a halt behind him. The deputy jumps out, his gun drawn. "Don't move. You're under arrest!"
Workley reaches for his gun.
A lonely stretch of countryside
Kimble swings down from the horse's back beside a railroad track. He pats King on the neck. "Thanks, boy. This is as far as you go. That's the most important rule of survival: Always travel alone."
The horse looks at him as though undecided, but when Kimble swats him on the backside, he heads for home as the sound of an approaching train is heard in the distance.
Epilogue
At the hospital
Deputy White is sitting in a waiting room, distractedly leafing through an old magazine, when a nurse comes in. "He's awake now, Deputy."
The sheriff's eyes come into focus as White walks up to his bedside. "What happened?"
"When you didn't call, I called your house. Your wife said you weren't home yet. I knew something was wrong, so I headed out to Millie's."
"Workley?"
White looks uncomfortable. "He's dead. I shot him…I didn't want to, but he drew his gun…".
The sheriff sighs in resignation but little surprise. "Don't let it bother you, son. He died the way he lived. It wasn't your fault."
The deputy looks relieved. "Millie's OK. So's the boy. He said that farmhand, Thompson, was the real hero – talked Workley out of taking him hostage, gave him a knife to get free. He said he must have told Workley to use the whip on the mare on purpose 'cause he knew she'd buck. That's how I caught him."
The sheriff nods thoughtfully.
The deputy hesitates. "The doctor said Thompson bandaged you real good, probably saved your life. Like maybe he knew what he was doing. Sheriff, was it Kimble? 'Cause we can still track him down…"
Taylor shakes his head. "No…Dr. Kettner was mistaken. There was only one murderer out there on the farm and you caught him. Good work, Deputy."
Next day, at the farm
Dr. Kettner and his wife are standing on the porch. Sharon hugs her mother, then Larry. "Mother, I'm so relieved you and Larry are safe!" She looks over at her husband. "When Larry told me who Mr. Thompson was, I was worried sick."
And when we heard about the other escaped convict, we just had to come straight back. To think they were working together. Mother, how could you have hired someone you knew so little about!?"
"Your father always said animals are the best judges of character. Sarge and King trusted him, so I trusted him, too. I don’t believe he killed his wife."
"I don’t either, Grandma. And they weren’t working together!" Larry adds. "Mr. Thompson saved our lives. And Sarge, too. And he sent King home again." He looks at his father with reproach. "Why did you turn him in, Dad? He was your friend, wasn't he?"
Kettner is taken aback. "You're right, son. I shouldn't have done that…But if doing it helped save your life, I don’t regret it...I owe Dr. Kimble a lot."
"Maybe you're right, Larry," Sharon said, "but this has convinced me of one thing. Mother, you just can't stay out here on the farm alone anymore. I won't hear of it. You're coming to live with us!"
Millie moves to protest, but Sharon adds, "Wait, Mother. Let me finish. I want you to keep the farm. Larry seems to really enjoy it here. We could board the horses during the winter and Larry and I could spend the summers here…I hadn't realized how much I missed it."
"Could we really, Mom?" Larry adds excitedly. "Then I could still ride King. And Grandma could bring her victrola…"
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