Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

a FUGITIVE novel by

HG & Cherilyn

Rating: NC-17
Fandom: The Fugitive (movie)
Pairing: Sam Gerard/Richard Kimble
Category: Slash. FT.
Written: March - September 1997
Warnings: none
Notes: Originally appeared in zine form, produced and published by Dog-House Press

ONE

Pacing backwards and forwards as if he had a limitless supply of energy - or was trying to draw some from a near-empty well - Deputy U.S. Marshal Samuel Gerard became increasingly exasperated with the slow-to-arrive elevator. His gesturing hands sliced through the air.

"I've had it with waiting for the damn thing to show! I'll catch up with you kids in the basement," he announced to his team of deputies before he left in a swirl of dark topcoat.

"Like we haven't had enough exercise," remarked Poole as she directed a hard stare after him.

"Be grateful he didn't make you take the stairs too," pointed out Renfro. He stood back to allow her to enter the elevator which had finally arrived.

Newman held the door open for two women who were hurrying towards them. Ignoring him, they got into the adjoining elevator. Giving a philosophical shrug, he let the doors close. "Sam could be mellowing," he suggested.

"Sammy?" Renfro gave him a look of disbelief, then spoke with the authority of Gerard's number two. "You must be confusing him with some other guy. Man, I'm tired." He wiped a hand over his face.

"Me, too," said Poole, tart because she was still on duty. "I've got this theory that Sam's really a clockwork toy. Poke around under that red vest of his and you'll find a key."

"I wish someone would hide it," moaned Newman as he refixed his ponytail. "The guy never stops."

"Sam doesn't ask for what he can't deliver," Renfro retorted. "This case has really got under his skin. With everyone else convinced Judd is dead, the asshole has an open field to snatch another kid."

"I know that," soothed Newman. "But even Sam can't work miracles."

Poole snorted. "You'll never make him believe that."

Renfro pulled on his gloves as the elevator came to a halt in the basement car park. "Never mind our resident miracle-maker. Show me why his new car should be causing so much talk, then I can go home."

"It's in his usual spot." From the proprietorial pride in Newman's voice the car might as well have been his own.

Following in the younger man's footsteps Renfro stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. "This is Sam's new car?" he checked in a reverent tone. "Oh man." He whistled his appreciation as he studied the sleekly beautiful car Gerard had acquired. Like polished jet it gleamed in the artificial light.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" Renfro complained as he walked around the object of his desire. "A Ferrari 456 GT. Nought to sixty in five point two seconds. In-your-face, strut-your-stuff, heaven-on-wheels. Forget Helen of Troy. This baby could start a war or two. We are talking seriously sexy."

Poole groaned and rolled her eyes, but even she could not resist caressing the powerful, elegant curve of the hood.

"There's only one phrase fit for this honey," continued Renfro in a hushed tone, love in his eyes. "Marilyn Monroe in metal." Hearing footsteps, he swung around and shook his head in mock despair when he saw who was approaching them. "Sammy, Sammy. We all know what it means when a guy your age gets a car like this."

Looking resigned, Gerard gestured for Renfro to get it over with. He had taken a lot of ribbing since he had succumbed to temptation. Now he was the proud owner of his heart's desire - and if the having had proved to be an anticlimax, only he knew that. In the last couple of years or so he had been plagued by a sense of restlessness. Cosmo would say he wasn't getting enough. Which was true, he conceded wryly, even if it wasn't the whole answer. Reluctant to examine his own emotions too closely, because he suspected he wouldn't like the answers he got, he had taken the easy option. For his peace of mind it was easier to obsess over an inanimate object than to admit what he really wanted and was never going to have.

"Aren't you going to defend yourself?" asked Renfro plaintively.

Gerard cocked his head. "How long have you known me, Cosmo?"

"Too damn long. You're no fun," he complained.

"I've heard that before," Gerard conceded. The sickle-shaped creases down his cheeks deepened into gouges as he smiled. "Save it - unless working a twenty-eight hour shift hasn't been enough for you." Having showered and changed at the office he knew he looked in better shape than the others. Equally, he was just as tired, despite his attempts to inject vitality into his speech and manner.

"You want me to stay on?" Renfro asked him, sobering,

"Now he thinks he's indispensable. Go home, Cosmo. Give Caroline grief, kiss your kids, kick the dog and never ever mention this car again. Clear?"

Renfro held up his hands. "I'm outta here. Don't let Noah drool on the upholstery. And keep Poole's feet off the dash."

"I heard that," she said.

Renfro had already taken off for his own car with more prudence than valor.

"Wow, look at that yellow streak down his back," remarked Newman. He looked half-asleep and pale under the strip-lighting.

Gerard clapped his hands briskly. "Let's see some energy here, boys and girls. We've miles to go before we sleep. Noah, are you travelling with us?" He gestured to the back seat.

Newman got in and spread himself luxuriously across the soft, black leather. "This car smells great. Very sexy."

"Of course it does. I'm a very sexy guy." Amusement warmed Gerard's dark eyes as he reversed out of his parking space.

Poole popped her gum. "Dreaming again, Sam?"

Before Gerard could reply Newman prodded him in the shoulder, having overcome his awe of the older man a long time ago. "How come Poole gets to ride with you in the front? She always gets to sit next to you. That's favoritism - and sexism."

Gerard gave the younger man a considering stare in the driving mirror. Newman held out for almost thirty seconds before he retreated back onto his seat and sulked as Gerard began the drive to Chicago Memorial Hospital.

Despite days of overwork and nights where sleep had been conspicuous by its absence, Gerard could feel himself coming alive, more energized than he had been for weeks. Catching a red light, he leant forward and hit the play button of the compact disc player. ‘Bad to the Bone' thundered out of the speakers, rich and raunchy and full of energy. He began to sing along with the chorus without even realizing it. After chasing Judd it would be a refreshing novelty to renew his acquaintance with the saintly Doctor Kimble, who had been his first innocent - most likely his only innocent - and therefore memorable.

While the doctor had made it plain he wanted nothing more than to put the past behind him, the past refused to lie down and die. Instinct insisted that Kimble's near-brushes with death over the last three months were personally motivated; if Devlin-MacGregor had wanted Kimble dead he would be worms' meat. Gerard knew his was the minority view. Given the billions at the drug company's disposal he wasn't about to be dogmatic about it. The FBI were botching the investigation into Devlin-MacGregor, which looked likely to drag on for years rather than months; the local branch had placed Kimble in protective custody for eight days, then decided it was unnecessary after all. Chicago Police Department had nothing to offer on the attacks Kimble had suffered, beyond conflicting evidence from eye-witnesses. Kimble himself seemed the least interested in what might be going on. But in the space of a month had come the death in prison of Nichols (ostensible suicide) and three days ago of Sykes (killed in a prison riot).

It was that event which had made Gerard decide that unless immediate action was taken Kimble would join the list of those who had conveniently died. The deputy intended to take a personal interest in the attacks on the doctor - if he could manufacture the time. With Kimble in protective custody by the Marshal's Office he could take Renfro and Poole off the Judd case without them realizing it; they got a break, Kimble would be safe and he could sleep easier - when he got time to sleep.

Gerard gave a soft snort. His budget was shot, spare time a luxury he had forgotten how to enjoy. His kids were being run ragged, the entire division so stretched that he'd had to accept a couple of secondees and then find somewhere to put them where they couldn't do any harm.

Watching Newman's reflection in the driving mirror, he realized the younger man was still trying to play the sick puppy card. The kid never knew when to quit, he reflected as he flicked off the compact disc player.

" - get motion sickness when I ride in the back."

"Irritate me and that will be the least of your troubles, young man," Gerard promised him. Impatient to be up and doing, his fingers tapped out an insistent rhythm against the wheel when he caught another light. In contrast to his passengers, who were trying to look cool about the attention they and the car were attracting, while loving every second of it, Gerard was genuinely oblivious.

The silence must have lasted all of a minute before Poole started to pop her gum. Gerard ignored the provocation, but when the window at her side slid down, then up again, he turned to glare at her. One glance at her expression was enough to confirm his suspicions; before she could react, he said:

"Noah, stop playing with the window, it's too damn cold out. Poole, don't even think of clogging up the ashtray with your gum."

Poole gave Newman an unnerving stare before she resettled herself and said to Gerard: "What am I supposed to do with it?"

Gerard's lips moved as he murmured something to himself before he held out his hand, palm upwards. "Spit."

"You're too cheap to buy your own gum? Here, have a fresh piece." Catching Gerard's expression, Poole thought the better of it and slipped the pack back into the pocket of her coat.

"Just give me the damn gum." He gestured impatiently with his fingers.

She gave an audible swallow, looked pensive for a moment, then gave him a disenchanted scowl. "It would have served you right if I had spat."

"It would," he agreed. The smallest of smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You are the most - Getting this car has turned you into a real grouch," she complained as she began to fumble through the compact discs which had already accumulated. Locating what she wanted, she reached towards the player. Gerard brushed her hand away without seeming to glance in her direction.

"Uh huh. My car. My choice of music. You'll be wanting that mushy crap you're so fond of."

Poole gave him a considering look.

"OK," sighed Gerard after a short time. He ejected the George Thoroughgood CD, muted the volume control and held out his hand, grimacing when he saw her choice. "I knew it. You can have one track. My choice. I don't want you fiddling with buttons. And Noah, no playing with the windows while this is on. I have an image to protect."

"What image is that, Sam?" asked Poole, before she held up her hands. "You play the music, I'll be nice."

He snorted but otherwise held his peace.

Relaxing back in her seat to enjoy his selection, Poole watched Gerard's lips move as he silently sang an accompaniment to the song. While he would claim he knew the lyrics only because she inflicted it on him so often, she preferred her theory.

Having begun to listen intently, Newman frowned. "What is she on?"

"Who?" asked Poole.

"This singer. Did she just say ‘companion to our demons'?"

"Yeah."

"So what's all that crap about chairs and stuff?" pursued Newman, aggrieved. It wasn't easy being a New Man.

Poole looked blank. "It's symbolic," she said finally, when inspiration failed her. Beside her, Gerard was wearing a wide grin.

"Of what?"

"Of - Damn, the track's finished." Poole gave Gerard a look of hope.

"Don't even think it," he said mildly. "It's not my fault you got suckered."

"By Noah?" she said, incredulous with chagrin.

"Yeah," Newman confirmed happily.

"I admire your courage, young man," said Gerard, "but you've gotta learn to quit while you're ahead." He swopped compact discs, cranked up the volume and returned to singing ‘B-B-B-bad to the bone' with the growly enthusiasm which anyone who worked with him had to get used to hearing.

Newman shook his head in admiring disbelief. "Whatever you're on, I want some," he said with feeling. "It can't be legal."

"Just happiness. I'm a very happy guy," Gerard broke off singing to say.

Poole turned down the volume. "And I'm Snow White."

"Yeah? Which of the dwarves have you got me down for?" inquired Gerard, before he frowned. "Noah, what you doin'?" What little beat there was against the back of his seat faltered.

"Playing the drums."

Gerard conceded the point with a small nod. "OK. But try to keep better rhythm. And watch the leather."

"You spoil that boy," Poole told him dryly.

"I know it. I guess I must be compensating for giving you the front seat."

"Don't start Noah on that nonsense again," begged Poole. "He's getting as bad as you."

"Thanks." Newman sounded genuinely pleased.

"You're a vicious woman," Gerard murmured, smiling again.

"Never mind the compliments. When are you going to let me drive?" Poole asked as she stroked the upholstery with a sensual appreciation.

"This car?" Gerard's eyebrows rose.

"Of course this car."

"When hell freezes over."

Newman leant forward in a hopeful manner. "What about me?"

"Is that a joke?" inquired Gerard, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Newman looked affronted. "Give me one good reason why not," he challenged.

"I can think of several. One, you never stop talking. Two, you don't watch the road ahead. Three, I still remember the day you were too busy eyeing that blonde to notice the truck until you ran into the back of it."

"That was almost a year ago," protested Newman, aggrieved.

"Ten months, two weeks and four days. Big Dog never forgets."

Poole snorted. "Big Dog's full of it. Though that explains the cautious way you were sitting down for a while after the accident. You were lucky."

"Damn right," agreed Gerard with fervor, remembering the lapful of glass fragments he had acquired from the shattered windshield.

Newman was a few sentences behind. "You remember exactly how long ago it was?" Having hoped he had lived down that accident, his disappointment was obvious.

Drawing up to the kerb, Gerard gave a quick, fierce grin. "Watch and marvel, bambini. Now, let's go persuade the good doctor that he needs to go back into protective custody."

"If I'd been through what that guy has, I'd have my bags packed - " muttered Poole.

"How could he know we're coming?" pointed out Newman. Having slid out of Poole's side of the car, he virtually stroked the door to a close. He winced when Gerard slammed the door on the driver's side as if this was some rusting pick-up.

" - to leave the country," she added. "Don't interrupt your betters."

"Shouldn't that be elders?" mused Gerard as he locked the car.

Newman belatedly turned his snort into an unconvincing cough when he discovered Poole was eyeing him in a terrifyingly thoughtful manner.

"I didn't say it, Sam did," he protested with large-eyed innocence.

"I know, but you scare easier," she told him, unimpressed.

"When you think what the guy's been through, the doctor's had some rough breaks," Newman said, abandoning the contest.

As a personal favor to Gerard, Newman had spent some off-duty hours at Chicago Memorial to inquire about Kimble's well-being after the knife attack. While it was information Newman had kept to himself, he wasn't surprised that Gerard planned to step in now the local FBI's half-hearted investigation into that attack had petered out. The police had drawn a blank; Kimble himself wasn't pushing them. Though given what he'd been through in the last few years that wasn't to be wondered at. With his own ideas about what was motivating Gerard, Newman was looking forward to seeing what happened next.

When Gerard changed direction, Newman looked slightly puzzled but assumed the older man knew a short cut as he abandoned the path to the main hospital doors and took them in via a loading bay, through which was a shabby set of swing doors and a narrow flight of stairs.

"We've never had an innocent one before. Or since," Newman offered, testing the waters.

Gerard ignored the bait, presuming he was even conscious of it.

"Doctor Kimble's going to be real thrilled to see us again," remarked Poole, "especially once he hears that the people who hunted him down two years ago want to put him back in protective custody."

Gerard looked suddenly tired. "Right." Poor lighting threw long shadows down the stone stairwell; it gave his half-lit face a surreal look, part gargoyle, part harsh beauty where shadows smoothed out imperfections. He was frowning as if he had a headache.

"How do you put your life back after what he's been through?" mused Poole. "Did he get in touch - after you helped speed up due process, I mean?"

"He did." Gerard's stride lengthened. The narrow, winding corridor was deserted and without signposts, those doors which led off it locked and unmarked.

"You never told us," accused Poole.

"There was nothing to tell. Doctor Kimble couldn't wait to see the back of the guy who came this - " he gestured with his thumb and forefinger, "close to blowing him away." He stopped so abruptly that Poole bumped into him.

"Damn-it-to-hell! Where are we?" He flung his arms out and turned in a full circle, scowling.

"We're lost." Newman always gained a certain comfort from stating the obvious. "Stay put, I'll check the end of the corridor." He took off at a trot.

His glare ricochetting off the walls, Gerard prowled up and down, looking mean enough to bite. "How did we get here - wherever here is?" he demanded of Poole.

"We followed you," she reminded him placidly, tolerant of his poor sense of direction in enclosed spaces and the accompanying burst of temperament.

Jogging back to them, Newman gestured onwards. "To the head of the stairs, then turn left. This is the way to the furnace."

"How far do we have to go?" Gerard thrust his fists into the pockets of his dark blue topcoat, his red scarf providing the only splash of color.

"The end of the yellow brick road," muttered Poole, who was having trouble keeping up with him.

When she stumbled, Gerard finally slowed his pace. "When are you going to buy boots without a heel?"

The top of her head level with his shoulder, Poole stared pointedly up his advantage of height until his hands parted in a gesture of surrender.

"What can I say?"

"Nothing, if you like living," recognized Newman.

Gerard had already set off again, although at a slower pace. "What does a surgeon who can't operate do?" He slowed to a halt.

"Normal people would take a holiday," muttered Poole as she passed him.

"What was that?" Gerard's tone was bland.

"Never mind," sighed Poole. She didn't need to look up to know Gerard was grinning; she could feel it piercing her shoulder blades. "Why can't Doctor Kimble operate?" she added.

"Do you ever listen to my briefings?" inquired Gerard. "He was attacked in the garage in the basement of his apartment, knocked unconscious and cut up. He was never clear about exactly what happened but from the pattern of the slashes on his palm and fingers it's probable he grabbed the knife by the blade while he was trying to defend himself."

Poole sucked in her breath.

"Unpleasant," agreed Newman. "He was real lucky - in the circumstances. The surgery paid off and he's just finished an extensive course of physiotherapy. I don't know how you missed the press coverage. The only person who didn't give his side of the story was the doctor himself."

"It must have been when Roger and I were on vacation. Doctor Kimble doesn't have much luck, does he?" Poole remarked, not without sympathy.

"Not if Devlin-MacGregor are on his back," said Newman.

"They're not," said Gerard positively. He began to relax the moment they emerged onto a wide, well-lit corridor which grew increasingly busy as they headed for the Information desk.

"We'll see," Poole said serenely.

"Ten bucks," challenged Newman.

Looking at them both, Gerard waited until Poole's cocky grin was fully formed before he said, "Make it twenty."

"OK," she said, aware that Newman was nodding.

Gerard gave the slowest of smiles, the lines which spread out from his eyes and down his lean cheeks betraying how often he did that.

"Has he suckered us again?" asked Newman with foreboding.

Poole feigned deafness.

"Hey, that's Jenny on the Information desk!" exclaimed Newman with pleasure. "I didn't realize she'd be on duty."

"What happened to Monica and Abby?" asked Poole, who had difficulty keeping up with Newman's ever complicated sex-life. Mild-voiced and seemingly unassuming, he had a lethal record of infidelity, yet rarely parted acrimoniously from an ex-lover.

"Ssh," said Newman hastily. "Jenny will hear you."

"Nothing's happened to Monica and Abby," interpreted Gerard. "Noah, go get that information about Doctor Kimble that we need. And be quick about it."

"Sure thing, Sam."

Poole pensively watched Newman approach the strawberry blonde desk clerk; if it hadn't been for her sullen expression the woman would have been beautiful. As Newman leant in close and began to talk, a smile blossomed on the woman's face.

"That boy has real talent," Poole noted.

"That he does. My, that's some scowl his young lady has," Gerard noted with amusement when Jenny looked past Newman to glare at him with real venom.

"I feel like I should check you out for scorch marks," agreed Poole. "It's my bet you're Noah's alibi for those nights he's with Monica and Abby."

"No bet," said Gerard lazily, as Noah hurried back to them, list in hand.

"What have you got?" he asked Newman, before he scanned the list. "Doctor Kimble obviously believes in keeping himself busy. I suppose it's too much to hope that he's wearing a pager?"

"Yep. He's not here in any official capacity. Just visiting patients," said Newman. "Apparently he's spending a lot of time with people without families or friends of their own."

"A regular boy scout," muttered Gerard as he tore the list into three. "You better take this section," he said, thrusting a portion at Poole. "You won't want to go wandering the corridors in those heels."

"Do I criticize your dress sense?" she retaliated. "Often," she added when he gave her a quizzical look before he turned his attention to Newman.

"Noah, my man. You take these floors. Is your young woman due a coffee break?"

"Sure," said Newman, looking at him with hope.

"You can have fifteen minutes downtime with Jenny. No more. OK?"

Newman gave him a high five. "Sam, I think I love you."

"That's very nice, Noah. Now go, before I change my mind."

"Some might say you've lost it," remarked Poole, watching Newman hurry over to the Information desk.

"I'm a romantic," Gerard explained, dead-pan.

Poole wandered off with the word ‘pitiful' floating behind her.

Absently flexing his fingers and mentally assessing the performance of movements he had once taken for granted, Kimble turned from the window when he heard the door of the private room open.

"Can I help you?" he asked. A sense of familiarity nagged at him as he stared at the diminutive black woman who had entered the room. Then he noticed the embroidered badge on the breast of her jacket, and the yellow printing on the other side.

"Deputy Poole, U. S. Marshal's Office." She gave no indication that she had noticed the fleeting apprehension on his face.

"What can I do for you?" His voice was slower and deeper than she remembered it.

Before she could reply a burst of automatic gunfire sounded some way away - but inside the hospital.

"What the - ?" Kimble headed towards the door to investigate.

"No, sir! Your life is in danger!" While she spoke Poole had hooked out her radio and she broke off to snap three sharp sentences into it.

"Sophy!" exclaimed Kimble as the sounds of gunfire and screams came closer.

"Who's she?" Poole tightened her grip on his arm. The press of her body against his made him retreat into the room without being conscious of it.

"A patient. She's in the bathroom. Sophy," he called, "stay put no matter what. Gunmen!"

There was no time to be certain she had heard him. Over Poole's shoulder he could see through the glass in the top portion of the door, where he glimpsed a gun barrel. Instinct took over. There was no time for the niceties and he virtually hurled Poole around the end of the bed into the corner by the wall, diving after her as the door was thrown open. Bullets sprayed the wall above where they lay. Poole groaned and stirred as he fumbled for the automatic at her waist. A detached portion of Kimble's brain hoped that the blow she had sustained had not caused too much damage.

The gunman burst into the room, seeking a better angle on the people behind the bed. "I can see you," he crooned as he raised the semi-automatic machine gun he held.

Kimble could hear the calm voice of the instructor from the shooting gallery as he released the safety catch and brought up the automatic, aiming for the largest target. As he fired off three rounds he heard two shots come from the doorway and he swung the automatic over to meet this new threat, firing once more. He managed to pull the shot when he realized the other gunman was Deputy Samuel Gerard.

For a split second after Kimble had fired Gerard's gaze locked with the doctor's. Gerard's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth open with disbelief that the doctor had fired at him.

Kimble looked back to the gunman, who lay sprawled on the floor; the man's breathing audibly faltered, restarted, then faltered again. The habit of a lifetime kicking in, Kimble lurched towards his patient.

Shaking his head, Gerard watched Kimble block his line of fire before the doctor dropped to his knees beside the gunman. The surgeon seemed unconscious of the threat posed by the submachine gun, which was still caught in the limply curled fingers of his attacker. In three strides Gerard swooped down to remove the weapon, his automatic trained between the gunman's eyes. His attention was on Kimble - a reluctant admiration on his face when, with a tenderness which seemed second nature to the medic, he tended to the man who was seconds from death.

Kimble paused to push Gerard's gun barrel away with the side of his hand. "Get that out of his face," he snapped without looking up.

"Sure, why not?" Gerard murmured, his inconvenient sense of humor sneaking up on him. He straightened when, through the open door, he saw armed security guards rushing up the corridor, on edge and ready to shoot anything that moved.

"Deputy U. S. Marshal Gerard! We're clear in here. The gunman's dead. We have no injuries. I repeat - " He continued speaking until he was certain they had seen the badge pinned to the breast of his coat.

Turning back into the room, Gerard lowered his automatic when he saw Kimble close the gunman's eyes with the sides of his thumbs. Then he noticed the gun the doctor had placed on the floor at his side.

"Hand me the gun you used, sir. Do it now!" Gerard commanded, hardening his voice as he recognized the signs of mild shock in the other man.

Kimble blinked. It was a tone he had heard once before and it penetrated the cotton wool in his brain. Then, as now, it was unthinkable to disobey. Getting to his feet, he put the safety catch on and handed the automatic to Gerard. His eyes never left the other man's lean face as he wondered if he had imagined the deputy calling him ‘sir'; confirmation that he hadn't came within seconds.

The stern set of Gerard's mouth softened. "Thank you, sir. Please stay away from the door. Security and Chicago Police Department will be hot out there. I don't want any accidents." As he spoke, he moved to block the open doorway, using his own body to shield the occupants of the room. "Poole, you all right?"

"Just peachy," she said weakly as she pulled herself to her feet.

Gerard glanced back and grinned. "You're OK." He turned to speak to someone outside the room, reholstering his automatic as he did so. "Noah, you got a lid on security? Excellent. CPD? OK. Yeah, miracles take longer. No, I'll stay in here with the doctor. I want you camped outside this door until the hospital has been locked down. That guy might have had a buddy working with him. How bad is it out there?"

Busy examining Poole, who had a gash and small, swelling lump on her forehead, Kimble could not hear Noah's reply. By the time he straightened from his patient Gerard, who was still blocking the entrance, was talking into a radio while his gaze swept the room. He was issuing a slew of orders with a calm competence which made him such a reassuring figure to be around in a crisis. Having settled Poole into an easy chair, Kimble suddenly remembered Sophy and turned to the bathroom door.

"Sophy? It's me, Richard. It's safe to come out now. It's all over."

Gerard's head shot up, his eyes fierce; he had not considered the possibility that the bathroom might be occupied. "Sophy?" he snapped.

"Armstrong," supplied Kimble, relief on his face as the door crept open, a task hindered by the walker on which the woman relied. "It's all right, Sophy. It's over."

"Thank the lord for that." The door swung back fully to reveal a frail-looking black woman.

"Are you OK?" Kimble unobtrusively took her pulse.

"Are you serious?" Her faded eyes bright with intelligence and an unquenchable spirit, her deep, rich voice sounded as if it should have come from a far larger person. "I would've peed my pants if I hadn't already been to the john."

She had already smiled at Poole and taken in the body of the dead gunman. Now her gaze travelled over Gerard where he stood.

"And who might you be?" she demanded, in a tone that expected to be answered.

His relaxed face was already showing its appreciation. "Deputy U. S. Marshal Samuel Gerard, ma'am. Bodyguard to Doctor Kimble." His relaxed drawl was warmly reassuring.

"Me?" blurted out Kimble as he stared at Gerard in appalled astonishment.

"We'll discuss that later, sir."

"You don't trust me, eh?" said Sophy wisely.

Gerard parted his hands. "For my part, with everything I have. But my boss is a hard man. I'm not allowed to gamble with Doctor Kimble's life."

"Bullshit, Sam," she returned forthrightly. "You're too used to getting your own way. You've got that look about you."

Poole gave an appreciative snort. "She's got you there, Sam."

Propped against the closed door, his legs crossed at the ankle, Gerard tilted his head slightly in surrender, humor revealing a totally different side to him. "I know it. And you're right, of course, Mrs - "

"Armstrong. Call me Sophy. And it's Miss. Three husbands are enough for anyone. They were all good men, but I'm my own woman."

He nodded his admiration. "That you are, Sophy. Wouldn't you be more comfortable sitting down?"

Her smile in response to his unleashed charm faded as she recognized the significance of the sounds coming from outside the room.

"Dear lord. How many?" There was sorrow in her eyes but she had seen too much to be shocked by senseless violence.

"Too many," said Gerard quietly. "Too many." He had the sensitivity not to try and help her during her torturous shuffle back to bed.

"I should be out there," muttered Kimble, appalled by his failure to react to a crisis.

As the other man approached the door Gerard straightened, slapping his palm on the door jamb, further blocking the doorway. It gave him no pleasure to see the doctor flinch before Kimble controlled his reaction. But his body language remained defensive, his broad shoulders hunched, his head and gaze slightly lowered. Less, Gerard recognized, because of what had just occurred in this room than because the posture had become a habit - an armor adopted to enable Kimble to survive fifteen months in a high-security jail: to escape the attention of prisoners and guards alike; to stay safe; to stay alive.

"Let me pass," said Kimble in a voice that was tight with tension.

"You're needed here," Gerard said, softening his tone. "Every doctor in the hospital is out there. There have now been three attempts on your life, let's not make it four. Besides, what could you do? You're not supposed to be working with that hand yet."

While it was a necessary reminder, the fleeting expression on Kimble's face was one Gerard would rather not have seen and he found time to offer what reassurance he could. "The Chicago Police Department will require a statement from you about the killing. You won't be facing any charges, the formalities won't be a problem, but they will take time."

Not a problem, thought Kimble sardonically as he shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the fact they were unsteady. His very public exoneration had wounded police department pride; there were still those who believed he had got away with murdering Helen.

"This is my hospital," he said as he began to absorb the full scope of the tragedy. "I work with these people."

"I hadn't forgotten that, sir. As soon as I have the details, I'll get them to you," Gerard promised him.

His frustration at his inability to do his job building, Kimble nodded, but he wasn't a good enough actor to hide his resentment of the other man. Then, catching Sophy's gaze on him, he managed to produce a smile as he went to check on his favorite patient.

"Poole, you look like hell." The laziness of Gerard's drawl was negated by the concentration with which he was watching her.

"There's good reason for that," she retorted, casting an unfriendly glance at Kimble.

"Doctor Kimble got in your way?" anticipated Gerard.

"Of course not."

"It was those damn heels of yours, wasn't it?"

"What it is with you and your fixation about my footwear? No, Doctor Kimble decided to play Superman and threw me over the bed."

"Hey, he doesn't waste any time, does he," grinned Sophy admiringly. She gave Kimble a nudge in the ribs. "Way to go, Richard."

Poole shook her head, then winced when it protested. "He saved my butt," she muttered.

"Wow, that hurt to say," recognized Gerard.

"I'm saying it, aren't I? It wasn't his fault I caught my head on the way down. He's checked me out and I'm fine. Though if you want to give me two weeks' vacation I won't argue."

"That would be a first," said Gerard absently, his unblinking gaze on Kimble. "I owe you, doctor. Poole, sit back down until I can organize a ride home for you. Do you want me to contact Roger?"

"He's home sleeping, you let him be. And I don't need a ride."

"Humor me. Getting that headache has turned you into a real grouch."

It was a moment before she picked up on the reference. "OK, Sam. Your department, your rules. I wouldn't say no to a chance to sleep this off. But you'll be short-staffed."

"There's Cosmo."

"He might have offered but he didn't expect to be taken up on it," Poole pointed out.

"Then he'll know better next time, won't he," said Gerard unsympathetically.

TWO

It was gone midnight before the Chicago Police Department finally - and reluctantly - released Kimble, and that was only thanks to the intervention of Deputy Renfro, who had been sent over by Gerard to see what was taking so long.

Renfro faced up to the two detectives who had been questioning Kimble. "If we have a problem here I know Sam would appreciate hearing about it. He isn't expecting to take as long when you come over to take his statement." The warning was unequivocal.

Kimble began to relax, having wondered if the nightmare might not be starting all over again. Ironic that it should be Gerard he had to thank for that reassurance.

Five minutes later, Kimble and Renfro stood in the car park, the doctor shivering more from reaction than the cold.

"Is your car here?" asked Renfro. He continued to scan their surroundings.

Kimble shook his head. "A colleague gave me a lift in this morning." He and Kath had talked so late that he had stopped over. He still had the kinks from sleeping on her too-short couch.

"That makes life easier. Chicago Police Department gave you a hard time," remarked Renfro as they got into the department-issue black Ford Taurus.

"No more than I expected." Untwisting the seat belt so he could fasten it, Kimble missed Renfro's intent look. "Where are we going?" he thought to ask. "I can easily get a cab home."

"Uh, no sir. It's our considered opinion that you should be in protective custody. I'll take you to your apartment so you can pick up some clothes and other essentials. Then I'll take you to the safe house."

"This is ridiculous," exploded Kimble, feeling control of his life beginning to slide away from him all over again. "I don't need protective custody, least of all from - " Regaining control, his mouth compressed, his gaze searing through the windshield.

Renfro sat firmly on his instinct to spring to Sam's defense; he could look after himself.

"Wait a minute. Am I a suspect here?" demanded Kimble.

"No, sir, but - "

"Then you can't force me into custody, can you?"

Oh great, thought Renfro tiredly, although his expression did not change. Then he remembered Kimble's track record was that of a man who would put himself on the line for a stranger in need of help. While saints were in short supply in this day and age, it couldn't hurt to put the doctor to the test. A cunning gleam entered the deputy's eye.

"No, we can't do that sir. Just as we can't hope to protect everyone you come into contact with."

In the silence which followed, Kimble turned to stare at him. "What are you talking about?"

"This evening - yesterday," Renfro amended with a tired grimace, "four people died and twenty-nine more were injured - some severely. Their attacker was a gunman called Floyd Patterson, who just happened to burst into the room where you were visiting a patient."

"Deputy Gerard promised to let me have a list of everyone who was killed or injured," interrupted Kimble as he remembered.

"I forgot. Sam wrote all the details out for you so you would know exactly what the state of play is. It was up-to-date as of eleven twenty-three." Fishing in an inside pocket, Renfro produced a three-page list. Written in vivid black ink, the script looked as if the writer had made an effort to be more legible than usual.

Scanning the pages, a small portion of Kimble's brain noted that all the medical terms were spelled correctly; the thorough list would have taken time and trouble to complete. Not that he had expected less of Gerard. To his relief none of the names on the list were known to him; guilt followed. They had been loved by someone.

"Guess you were lucky, huh," remarked Renfro. "Even for Chicago this was a bad one. You didn't know the gunman - Floyd Patterson?"

Kimble made a sound of irritation. "I've never even seen him before. I've already been through this with the police."

"I'm sure you have, sir. Equally, you'll have to keep going over it until we can be certain why, out of all the rooms, Floyd should have picked yours."

"From what I saw of him, Patterson was wired. I presumed he was using - probably PCP, although as I don't work the E.R. I've lost track of the new cocktails on the streets. Do you really think he was after me?" Despite everything Kimble had been through in the last three years, the concept that he could be the target was difficult to accept.

"I don't know," said Renfro with truth. "At the moment we have no idea what he was doing there. He could just be a random psycho. God knows there's enough of them."

"I thought Deputy Gerard didn't solve puzzles," said Kimble, an edge to his voice at the memory.

"I don't know who gave you that idea. He's been known to tackle a few in his time. Until this one's been resolved he wants you in protective custody. There's a risk you could go the way of Nichols and Sykes."

That gave Kimble pause. "Sykes is dead, too?"

Renfro noted the too-controlled voice as the doctor spoke the name of the man who had murdered his wife. "Oh, yeah. Day before yesterday, in a prison riot."

A look of savage satisfaction crossed Kimble's face, the expression gone so fast that Renfro began to wonder if he had imagined it.

"Well Sykes' death has nothing to do with - " Kimble's voice trailed off. "A riot would be one way to disguise a murder. But something of an overkill - no pun intended - surely?"

"Sam, Deputy Gerard, is concerned for your safety."

"That's very caring of him."

"Sammy's a very caring guy."

"I could tell that," said Kimble dryly. "Though why he should imagine locking me up again - "

Renfro shot him a quick glance, his expression softening when he recognized the thinly disguised panic behind the calm mask. "It won't be like that, sir. It's a really comfortable place and CPD won't be involved in any way. You're our responsibility. Are you willing to risk another massacre?" he added gently, when Kimble did not respond.

The doctor's face tightened. "Does Deputy Gerard always get what he wants?" he asked wearily.

Renfro visibly thought about it. "Mostly," he said.

To ease them through any difficult moments, Renfro kept up an inconsequential monologue while Kimble packed. This apartment was even closer to the hospital, and very different from the stylish ice palace Kimble had shared with his wife. This was the home of a man with no interest in where he lived. Sparsely, if elegantly, furnished, this could have been an expensive hotel suite for all the personal items it contained. Renfro felt vaguely envious until he thought of life without Caroline and the kids; even the damn dog. He was careful not to talk about his family, not least because he couldn't begin to guess how Kimble had come to terms with being sentenced to death for the murder of the wife he had loved. Instead, he chose the safe subject of cars; specifically his car, which had just gone back to the mechanic for the third time in a year.

"Caroline needs the station wagon to make the school runs, which are in the opposite direction from the office. I'll have to rent, which is going to put one hell of a dent in our budget. Damn cars. Can't live with them, can't get by without them," Renfro muttered as he loaded himself with boxes. "Is this all you want?"

"I can't think of anything else," said Kimble, who had allowed for ten days, which he would try to think of as a vacation. He followed Renfro down to the basement car park but ignored the department car Renfro was driving to head for his own vehicle.

"Uh, sir - " Renfro began.

"You can ride in yours if you'd rather but I'm using mine," said Kimble in a tone which brooked no argument. While it was irrational, he needed some proof that he still had some control over his life, no matter how small.

Recognizing the desperation behind the antagonism, Renfro allowed himself to be over-ruled. But he would not allow Kimble within twenty feet of the car until he had made an exhaustive search.

"At last," said Kimble in the weary tone of a bored adult humoring a troublesome child. The car packed, he got behind the wheel.

"You can give me directions to the safe house," he said when Renfro looked at him. "I might have to accept a nanny for the next few days but I'm damned if I'll have a chauffeur."

"OK, sir," murmured Renfro peaceably.

It was an easy concession to grant and it was essential that Kimble should feel he still had charge of his life. If the doctor wanted to walk there wasn't a damn thing they could do to stop him. He was an intelligent man - and a caring one, or he wouldn't have risked recapture to ensure a kid got the emergency treatment he needed. This was one doctor who saw his patients as more than dollar signs.

Renfro's expression brightened. That was their hook. The best way to keep Kimble cooperating was to reinforce the fact they couldn't guarantee he wouldn't risk the lives of anyone around him if he chose to leave protective custody. He hoped they could keep the doctor alive until they found out what was going on. The guy deserved a break. Besides, any man with the balls - and desperation - to dive off into that spillway had his respect.

Having become aware of everyone's fatigue Kimble wondered what case Gerard and his people had been working on. Renfro wasn't the only one over-working. The inner vitality that had made it seem as if energy crackled around Gerard, even when he sat still, had been missing, and Poole's reaction time had been way down.

The car caught up in the gridlocked traffic in the aftermath of the attack at Chicago Memorial, Kimble began to relax. This time he wasn't on the run. This time he was the good guy as far as Gerard and his people were concerned. Besides, when he'd had enough he was free to leave.

The house Renfro directed him to was situated in what was turning into an expensive suburb after years of urban decay. The grounds were so extensive that the house wasn't visible from the road. Protection was provided by high walls, electronic gates and security cameras. The set-up wasn't even close to what Kimble had been expecting of a safe house. As he turned the final curve in the drive to see the unpretentious brick and wood house, he nodded his appreciation. The grounds accommodated what was essentially a modest family house. He was given little chance to enjoy his surroundings.

Taking the doctor straight indoors, Renfro introduced him to a younger, vaguely familiar man called Newman, who looked like a kicked puppy when Kimble failed to respond to his smile of welcome.

"You'll have to excuse Noah," said Renfro. "It never occurred to him that you had a lot on your mind last time you met."

Kimble shook his head ruefully. "I don't remember much at all about that night. Except you, of course. And who could forget Deputy Gerard?"

Renfro chose to take the comment at face value, his grin making him look like a blond chipmunk. "Yeah, Sam tends to make an impression on people. No, leave that, sir. Noah will bring your stuff inside. Why are you giving me your car keys?" he added, catching them automatically when Kimble tossed them to him.

"Am I right in believing that I won't be going out much for the next few days?"

"You know you are," Renfro said warily.

"You need a car. Someone may as well make use of mine while I'm your - guest."

Not certain he had heard correctly, Renfro stared at him. "You can't go lending your car to a total stranger," he protested.

Kimble gave him a quizzical look. "You're a deputy marshal - hardly a likely candidate for auto theft."

"No, but it's tempting in this case. I've always had a thing for Corvettes."

Kimble gave the faintest of grins, the frozen look fading from his eyes. "Me, too. I'll risk it."

"Thanks. Man, I hope they never send my car back. I'll take good care of it."

Kimble shrugged. "It's only a car. You look after yourself."

Renfro blinked. While the doctor was nothing like Sam, the sentiment he had just voiced was identical. "That nonsense when the police pulled you over on our way here. How often have they stopped you under some pretext or another?"

Kimble's face tightened. "About once a week," he said colorlessly, but his body language betrayed him.

Renfro nodded. "I figured as much by the way they - " Trailing off, he shrugged. "I think you'll find things will be better from now on."

Kimble looked skeptical. "You're going to wave your magic wand?"

"Not mine. Sam's. He's kind of old-fashioned when it comes to abuse of power."

Kimble didn't say anything untoward but his expression made it plain he wasn't a member of the Sam Gerard fan club. Hardly surprising in the circumstances, Renfro conceded, but it wasn't going to make the next few days any easier. Because the doctor was obviously too uptight to sleep straight away, despite the late hour, Renfro took him on a guided tour of the house.

"This place is amazing," said Kimble, when he and Renfro were sat in the huge living-room with a beer. "It's good to know my taxes aren't being wasted." He had expected the safe house to have the basic characterless facilities to be found in any moderately priced motel. Instead, the sturdy, turn-of-the century wood and brick house felt immediately welcoming; spacious, well-lit, with a lot of polished hardwood, comfortable furnishings and a minimum of clutter. His bathroom was frankly luxurious, the only downside the fact he would be sharing it with Gerard, who had the bedroom on the other side.

"Wasted on what?" asked Renfro, puzzled.

"Paying for something as comfortable as this safe house. Are you sure I'm in the right place?"

"I'm positive. Your taxes aren't maintaining the house," added Renfro. While Sam hadn't said he could tell the doctor, he hadn't said he couldn't either. "This is Sam's house."

Kimble blinked. "Sam as in Gerard? Have I missed something here? This is Deputy Gerard's home?"

Renfro visibly bristled, his friendly gaze hardening. "Look, let's get one thing out of the way right now. Sam never has been and never will be on the take. His family left him money, which is how he has this house and stuff. Clear?" Fiercely protective of the other man's honor, he glared at the doctor.

Kimble nodded. "Relax, deputy. That wouldn't have occurred to me," he said with truth.

Renfro nodded and slowly relaxed. "That's OK then."

Kimble looked thoughtful. "From your reaction I take it other people have made that assumption."

Renfro gave him a level look of some severity. "Not to Sam's face they haven't."

"Rest assured. Any doubts I have, I'll be sure to voice them to Deputy Gerard."

"Fair enough, doctor."

"You still haven't answered my question," Kimble pointed out. "Why am I going to be staying at Deputy Gerard's house?"

"If the home of a deputy marshal isn't safe, where is? Besides, we're up to our eyes in witnesses needing protective custody."

"And Chicago doesn't have any hotels."

Renfro ignored the sarcasm. "This is easier to guard. And we can work from here. You have free run of the place - except for the office. Any shopping you need, of any kind, write it on the list stuck to the refrigerator. Don't compromise your safety - or ours - by making use of any cellular phone. If you have to make any calls we'll arrange for you to use a secure land phone. Don't go into the grounds without an armed escort, or sit at a window. That aside, enjoy your stay, doctor."

"I like a challenge," said Kimble sardonically.

He fought to subdue the panic fluttering in his gut. No matter how comfortable this might be, it was still a prison.

THREE

Despite having slept for six hours, Kimble still felt heavy-eyed as he went downstairs and through to the kitchen. His stomach rumbling, he tried to remember when he had eaten last. Uneasy at the knowledge that everything around him belonged to Deputy Marshal Samuel Gerard, he intended to have out this nonsense about needing protective custody with the deputy. To his irritation, when he went into the kitchen he learnt that Gerard had yet to arrive home, although Poole was there, looking rested and bright-eyed.

"Twelve hours sleep will do that for a woman," she said in response to Kimble's comment on her improved appearance.

"Has a doctor checked your head? If not, I'll take a look at it."

About to turn down the offer, Poole realized that Kimble probably needed this more than she did. After that knife attack he would be eager for any chance to confirm to himself that he had retained his old skills. This was a situation where he was out of his depth and relying on the expertise of strangers - not easy for a man accustomed to authority in his own field.

"Thanks, but later." Pouring him out some coffee, she gestured to the scrubbed wooden table on which the milk and sugar sat. "For now, help yourself to doughnuts - the chocolate ones with sprinkles are spoken for."

"Someone has a sweet tooth," Kimble remarked, before he bit into an aromatic cinnamon ring.

"Don't they just," she murmured as she watched him lick sugar from his fingers.

The doctor had attractive hands. There again, he was an attractive man, particularly now he was beginning to relax a little, loosening the locked muscles in those powerful shoulders and down his back. She'd thought he'd looked good with the beard, but without it he looked years younger and the sensuality of his face was more apparent. The scar on his chin, rather than detracting from his looks, served only to draw attention to his mouth, which was sinfully tempting. As Poole watched, his tongue flicked out to lick sugar from that deliciously full lower lip. Blinking, she reminded herself that she was a happily married woman. But this spell of duty was going to have some unexpected perks.

"How do you like your eggs, sir?" asked Renfro, turning from the stove. One look at his face made it obvious who had been on night-duty.

"You don't have to wait on me," said Kimble.

"It's easier to share out the chores. Can you cook?"

"I give great breakfast. I saw myself through college as a short-order cook."

"Terrific, because Poole can't."

"Won't," she corrected, her tongue flicking out to recapture the spot of jam at the corner of her mouth. "I know you. And Sam's not much better. Give Cosmo your order, sir, then we can discuss a few ground rules."

Kimble had just taken his first mouthful of omelette when Newman came into the kitchen with two other men, who broke off what they were saying to introduce themselves as Robert Biggs and Henry Ritchie. In common with the rest of Gerard's people that he had met they were businesslike, but friendly, with a reassuring air of competence. Helping themselves to doughnuts, Biggs and Ritchie left after having a brief word with Renfro. The chocolate doughnuts remained unclaimed.

"Busy night?" Poole asked Newman, who had sagged limply into a chair.

He groaned and stared at the doughnut he had grabbed, as if it was too much effort to eat it. "That's not funny. I haven't stopped. I'm going to be walking down wind of myself any minute now." While a little crumpled, he still looked smart enough in a dark, well-cut suit, the exuberance of his hair severely curtailed in a tight-drawn ponytail.

"What's Sam doing?" Renfro passed his barely touched meal to Newman, who after one mouthful started to eat like a man possessed.

"Talking," he mumbled. "He's spent so much of the night on the phone it's a wonder his ear isn't numb. Damn, these eggs are good. Cosmo, will you marry me?"

Renfro turned from where he was preparing a fresh breakfast for himself. "In your dreams."

Listening to the friendly banter between the deputies, Kimble was reminded of his relationship with Charles Nichols. He felt a sharp pang of grief when he remembered his friend's death, before other memories kicked in. He'd tried to convince himself that Chuck had been sucked into the scheme in which Helen had died and he had been framed for her murder, but the ugly truth was that Chuck had been a willing participant. Kimble wondered cynically what it would take to break the friendship between Renfro and Poole. All Nichols had needed to betray a friendship of twenty years standing was money.

"Some more coffee, sir?" asked Poole, who had been keeping a close eye on the doctor. Whatever he had been thinking about, it couldn't have been pleasant.

Kimble visibly jumped, although he tried to cover the fact. "I'm fine," he said. From then on he concentrated on the conversation going on around him.

"Who are you hurrying off to - Monica, Jenny, or Abby?" asked Poole.

"Monica. She's not working this morning. Nor am I," added Newman with glee.

"You're supposed to be catching up on some sleep," Renfro pointed out with disapproval.

"Give me a break, Cosmo. I'll be in bed. I'll see you guys later. Sir," Newman added to Kimble, talking through his last mouthful of eggs, before he left, his energy levels renewed by the thought of the morning ahead of him.

"I've only got eleven years on that guy, so why do I feel old enough to be his father?" groaned Renfro, before his expression grew more stern. "He'd better not screw up because he's been catting around when he should have been sleeping."

"He won't," said Poole positively. "You make the best eggs."

A prickling at the back of his neck told Kimble when Gerard entered the room and swept past him. The deputy's set, pale face and dark coat increased the air of intimidation he brought with him.

"Doctor." He slumped onto the chair at the head of the table, then slid down the seat with his hands punched in his coat pockets and his legs crossed at the ankles.

Poole pushed the plate of doughnuts towards him but Gerard pulled a face and shook his head, scowling from under the jut of his eyebrows. Kimble tried to concentrate on his meal but the food had lost its savor. He only just stopped himself from over-reacting when Gerard suddenly leant forward to take the mug of coffee Renfro had been reaching for. Swallowing a mouthful, Gerard made a sound of disgust.

"Jeez, Cosmo. When are you going to learn to make decent coffee? My tooth enamel just melted."

"The coffee's fine," said Poole. "You've just drunk so much of it recently that it's making you nauseous."

"Thank you, Doctor Poole," Gerard said, subjecting her to a hard stare.

Unmoved, she raised her eyebrows in question.

He gave a small nod, as if conceding the point, and sipped without enthusiasm from the glass of milk she handed him. Rubbing his sore eyes, he pushed himself up on the seat before his tailbone slipped off it completely, hooked an ankle over his knee and turned his brooding gaze on Kimble.

"We have some questions for you once you've finished breakfast, sir."

Kimble picked up his fork again.

"Take your time." Gerard's expression was so bland and his voice so mild that it was a moment before the sarcasm bit. By then his attention was elsewhere.

"Cosmo, have CPD got their asses in gear on Patterson?"

Renfro hesitated and glanced at Kimble, who pretended not to notice.

Gerard missed none of the interaction. "It's OK. We have no secrets from Doctor Kimble. Well, not many."

Renfro was halfway through his report, talking with his mouth full for the most part, when Gerard glanced down and realized he was still wearing his outdoor clothes. He was so damn tired he hadn't noticed. Tossing his scarf over the back of the spare chair, he stiffly got to his feet to shrug out of his topcoat.

Watching him without appearing to do so, Poole's frown deepened when she noticed the stiffness of his movements and that his face had moved from lean to gaunt since he had started to work on the Judd case. About to bully him into eating something, she noticed the hole in his coat.

"Who's been taking pot shots at you, Sam?" Poking her index finger into the hole in the cashmere and wool mix, she waggled the tip of her finger at him.

Abruptly Kimble saw the disbelief on the deputy's face after he had fired at him in the hospital room. "Me," he said into the silence. He hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt.

Renfro's eyes widened slightly. "Are you OK, Sammy?"

Gerard parted his hands as he sat back down. "As happy and handsome as ever." Fatigue dragged at the muscles of his face.

"I owe you a new coat." Kimble was flippant to cover his realization of how close he had come to hitting the other man. If he hadn't pulled the shot he could have killed the deputy.

Gerard's all-encompassing gaze flicked over Kimble, noting the new signs of tension. "If you're feeling guilty, how about sewing up the damage? You're the surgeon."

Relaxing, Kimble nodded. "Sure. I need to keep my hand in." Leaning forward to top up his cold coffee, he sat back and discovered Renfro was frowning at him.

"Was yesterday the first time you've ever had to shoot someone, sir?" asked the deputy.

Cradling his mug between his hands, Kimble nodded. "I hope it will be the last. Patterson gave me no choice. I was so wired that I only just managed to pull my last shot. There was a moment when I was afraid I'd killed your deputy here."

Gerard's head shot up, his eyes wide before he thought to guard his expression.

"What?" demanded Kimble, picking up on the moment with disconcerting speed.

His expression smoothing out into a bland mask, Gerard shook his head. "It was nothing."

"The hell it wasn't. That was surprise on your face. Did you think I'd deliberately fired at you?" All his attention on Gerard, Kimble was oblivious of the fact Poole and Renfro were also staring at the other man.

"People shooting at me is an occupational hazard, sir," evaded Gerard.

"I can understand the temptation better now," snapped Kimble. "That didn't answer my question. Did you think I deliberately aimed and fired at you?"

Gerard gave a wry half-smile, which had the unfortunate effect of further inflaming the doctor.

"Damn you. If I'd wanted I could have shot your fucking head off!"

Gerard raised his large hands in the universal gesture of surrender, his tone conciliatory. "Doctor, doctor. I jumped to the wrong conclusion back at the hospital, but only for a few seconds, OK?"

The expression on Kimble's face made it obvious it was anything but all right.

Stifling a sigh, Gerard shifted on his chair as he tried to find a position of comfort. If the way Cosmo was frowning at him was any indication, he must look like shit. Refocussing, it was with no great sense of surprise that he saw that Kimble was still staring at him as if he had just crawled out from under a rock.

"Yes, sir?" he prompted with a trace of resignation.

"You don't seem shocked."

"Not a lot shocks me any more," Gerard told him without emphasis.

Kimble's widening eyes betrayed his contempt before he got to his feet, his chair scraping back over the floor tiles. "What kind of a man are - ? I need a break before you ask your questions."

Gerard's face hardly seemed to move, even when he spoke. "No problem. We'll be in the office across the hall."

He watched Kimble leave the room before he pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. "Shit," he muttered tiredly, to no one in particular. "I screwed that up, didn't I."

"That can't have been a question," said Renfro, before he exchanged a glance with Poole.

"Low blood sugar, that's your problem," she told Gerard briskly. "Cosmo, he needs some high energy food."

Renfro nodded, losing some enthusiasm when he realized he was expected to do the cooking.

"I don't - " began Gerard, trailing off when both his companions glared at him. Shrugging, he let them get on with it, tuning out their low voices. Simply sitting, harboring what energy he had left, he became aware that Poole was staring at him.

"What?" Gerard asked with resignation. Poole's silences always said more than speeches by most people.

"That scene with Doctor Kimble just now. Why would you think he would deliberately aim at you?"

Gerard gave an exaggerated sigh. "I made a mistake, OK?" His eyes wide, he was the picture of innocence.

"The doctor did good to pull his shot. He did pull it, didn't he, Sam? Only you were missing for almost two hours during the night. And when you got back you were wearing a different shirt."

"Cosmo - "

"Save it, Sam," Renfro advised him, turning from the pan where he was stirring the egg mixture. "The doctor didn't miss you, did he? Do we have to strip search you to get the truth?"

"Don't even think it. I'm damned if I want you prodding me, too. It's a nick, in my side. Nothing. I got it seen to at Cook County. Chicago Memorial had enough to do patching Patterson's victims together."

"And what treatment did you have?" demanded Renfro.

"Can we move on from here, people?"

"I don't like it when you lie to us, Sam. Particularly not when it's for our own good. Either you trust us to do a professional job or you don't," snapped Renfro, his angry gaze boring into the other man.

"Yeah," Gerard sighed, "I know. I screwed up. But there's no need to tell Kimble what happened."

"Jeez, no," agreed Renfro with feeling. "Eat these while they're hot." He set a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of Gerard.

"Shouldn't you be resting instead of chasing around after Judd?" added Poole.

"I will be. I've got Noah's twenty-six year old legs to do all the running around for me." Poking the eggs with his fork, Gerard took a reluctant mouthful and discovered he was hungry.

Ten minutes later, licking chocolate sprinkles from the corner of his mouth, he strode into the office, a fresh mug of coffee in one hand and his energy levels restored by food. "You'd better set up another computer and modem in here. A fax, too," he added as he stood by the desk, finger-sifting the stack of papers awaiting him.

"They're on their way," Renfro told him.

"Excellent." Gerard picked up a Chicago police department file marked ‘Judd, Henry John' and started to re-read it, even though he could have quoted most of it. He broke off to ask, "Are you up to handling the Kimble case for a while?"

"Sure, Sammy." Renfro set down Gerard's topcoat and scarf.

"Good man." Flexing his stiff shoulders, Gerard grimaced, seated himself behind the desk and began to read in earnest. In the background he could hear Poole ask Renfro if he wanted a piece of the action.

"What's the bet?" asked Renfro with caution.

"Noah and I still favor the conspiracy theory. We think Devlin-MacGregor are behind these attacks on Kimble. Sam's convinced it's personal."

Glancing up, Gerard's jaw tightened when he saw Kimble was standing in the doorway behind Poole and Renfro, who had no idea he was there. While the doctor's usually expressive face might have been set in stone, contempt blazed from his eyes, his beautiful mouth set in stern lines.

"We've got the boss-man down for twenty bucks," continued Poole.

"I'll take a piece of that. Twenty bucks on personal," said Renfro without hesitation.

Kimble crossed the room and reached for his wallet. With deliberation he leant between Poole and Renfro to place twenty dollars on the edge of the desk.

"Put me down for government conspiracy." While his deep voice was level enough, rage left jagged edges beneath the velvet.

Renfro half-turned but a dramatic exit was the last thing on the doctor's mind. Sinking into the vacant chair, Kimble drew it closer to Gerard's desk and glared at the other man as Gerard flicked through a file.

Kimble was visibly disconcerted when it was Renfro rather than Gerard who began to question him.

"OK, sir. Who wants you dead?"

"Why don't you tell me? This is your theory, not mine."

"It's hardly a theory," said Poole briskly. "Unless you think all the attacks on you were just happy coincidences?"

"Where's the smart money?" asked Kimble, a bite to his voice.

He glanced at Gerard, but the other man seemed oblivious of their conversation, and the interest he was attracting as he studied three photographs. His eyes slightly narrowed, his concentration was total, the force of his will a formidable presence. The surge of resentment Kimble experienced when he realized Gerard was working on another case besides his own took him by surprise. The deputy might symbolize everything he wanted to forget, but the man had a formidable track record of success. Since they had first met while he was on the run Gerard had been featured in the media a number of times - unwillingly, if his monosyllabic replies had been anything to go by. He had a high public profile - there were even rumors that the Republicans had approached him to run for office.

"The smart money, as you call it, is on trying to keep you alive," snapped Poole, her expression disapproving. "But we're not getting much help from you."

"It might look like a personal vendetta on our part but, trust me, the department isn't short of work. We have better things to do than shut ourselves away in a safe house with you," Renfro told Kimble, who gave an exaggerated sigh.

"If someone really wants me dead there isn't a damn thing anyone can do to save me. It depends how committed the attacker is - presuming the attacks weren't random crimes. My bad luck at being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Gerard's head rose, his bloodshot eyes pinning the doctor where he sat. "No one's that unlucky. Someone wants to hurt you," he said, chilling in his flat certainty. "The faster you accept that, the faster we can move on. You're not the only one who wishes they were elsewhere. If you insist on returning to your apartment, or the hospital, and the hell with the safety of anyone who comes into contact with you, go. Now. We don't have time to waste on this shit." Even with his energy levels muted, his bluntly-voiced option had a daunting force.

A highly respected surgeon, Kimble was not accustomed to being spoken to as if he was an irresponsible moron. He was about to set Gerard straight on a few points when he absorbed the finer points of the deputy's appearance; anyone who worked in a hospital was familiar with the signs of exhaustion. The FBI special agents had made it plain they thought they were wasting their time keeping him in protective custody. That Gerard obviously didn't share that view compelled Kimble to face up to the threat in a way he had avoided doing until now.

"I'll stay," he muttered ungraciously to Renfro. "What do you need to know?" He was overly conscious of Gerard, who was collecting up files.

"Noah's just arrived, Sam," Poole announced quietly, having left the room to go to the front door.

Riffling through a desk drawer, Gerard nodded and unobtrusively pocketed a pack of extra-strength Tylenol.

Renfro leant across, recapturing Kimble's attention. "We've compiled a list of your patients since you resumed work." He handed a copy to the doctor. "We need your confirmation that the list is complete.""What possible relevance do my patients have?" retorted Kimble, his good resolutions forgotten.

Gerard swung around in the doorway, his top coat half on and half off. "Take a long, hard look at your hand, doctor. Someone wanted to stop you from performing surgery - and they came close to succeeding. In the first attack you were followed when you left the hospital one night and almost run down in the car park. Your right hand was slashed with a knife. Then Patterson tries to kill you - in the hospital. You're supposed to be a bright guy, think about it." He swept out, the door slamming shut behind him.

With Gerard gone, the air seemed thinner and easier to draw into the lungs. Kimble relaxed as if he had been relieved of some invisible weight. He shook his head when he realized Renfro was still waiting for him to respond.

"I'm sorry, deputy, but if you want details of my patients, you'll have to get them without help from me."

Renfro gave an exasperated sigh, then nodded. "OK, sir. Let's start with your family."

FOUR

While the house was nothing like a high-security prison, Kimble was overly aware that his movements were restricted and that he was under constant, if discreet, surveillance. With Gerard appearing when he was least expected, like the Demon King of legend, Kimble was constantly on edge, never knowing when he could expect to see him.

Given a free rein, he explored the lower floor of the house. It consisted of small storage rooms, and a laundry and drying room, neither of which seemed to have been used for some time. The rest of the space was given up to a vast area which, while it seemed to be intended for a gym, contained only a punch bag, an ancient exercise bike, a sagging couch and a television. But there were a number of intriguing looking boxes and packages which, if the labelling could be believed, contained equipment waiting to be unpacked and put together. While there was no natural light, the illusion of space was heightened by the mirrors panelling two walls, which made Kimble wonder how vain Gerard might be.

While it hadn't really occurred to him before, the deputy was a fine-looking man, even if he didn't flaunt his good-looks. If anything, Gerard dressed to play down his physical impact - which was considerable. But then in his line of work the last thing he would want would be to attract notice. Kimble wondered idly about Gerard's preferences where his private life was concerned - or whether the man had one.

It was difficult not to be aware of Gerard. The more time he spent in the deputy's house, the more conscious Kimble became that everything around him, from the coffee he drank to the towels he used, belonged to Gerard; he was even using the other man's soap and toothpaste until those he had ordered should arrive. He was surrounded by the deputy wherever he went, whatever he did, and he didn't care for the sensation at all. Gerard needed no help to make his presence felt. Kimble still couldn't credit that he'd been brought to Gerard's house. It couldn't be normal procedure, but he rather suspected that the other man made his own rules.

Finding it difficult to settle during his second night in custody, Kimble woke a number of times. On the last occasion he sat up in bed, his heart racing from a dream which was already fading, as he tried to establish what had woken him. Then he heard the sound of water running in the bathroom next door; Gerard was home. Straightening the tangled bedcovers, Kimble resettled himself and was soon asleep.

FIVE

Awake just after six, Kimble pulled on a jockstrap and sweats and went downstairs, acknowledging a red-eyed Renfro before going down to the gym. After a warm-up routine, during which he discovered that he was not as fit as he thought he was, he applied himself to a lengthy session on the exercise bike. He kept boredom at bay by watching the news on CNN.

While he knew he would feel the effects later, by the time he stopped he was sweating freely, his muscles loose and his skin glowing. Mopping his face with the towel slung around his neck, he quickened his pace as he left the gym and hurried up to the ground floor and through the kitchen. Rounding the corner to the stairs, he walked smack into Gerard and instinctively grabbed him for support.

Giving a soft grunt as he absorbed the impact of Kimble's muscular body, Gerard's senses were flooded with the other man: fresh sweat; heat; and the intimacy of their close-pressed bodies, the other man's thigh partially between his own. Becoming aware that his fingers were curved around the firm resilience of the doctor's rump, Gerard released him and stepped back.

"Sorry," said Kimble, hurrying on with a faintly self-conscious air.

Exhaling softly, Gerard watched him go, his impassive face masking a number of conflicting emotions.

Only Poole was in the kitchen when Kimble came back downstairs, his hair still wet after his shower. She was making french toast, while sipping what smelt like very good, freshly-ground coffee. It was only Kimble's innate good manners which stopped him from mugging her for it.

"That smells terrific. Is there enough food for two?" he added diffidently, as he brushed back the hair which fell over his eye.

Poole looked him up and down. "Nice, try, sir. You've got that wistful look off pat. But after working with the guys for four years I've been scammed by experts."

Kimble looked philosophical and went to check on the contents of the stocked-to-capacity refrigerator. Spoilt for choice, he opted for cholesterol heaven.

"Help yourself to coffee," invited Poole, serving her meal onto the plate she had warmed.

"Where is everyone?"

"Working."

Telling himself that such dedication could only mean he should be out of here within days, Kimble was whistling as he cooked himself breakfast. He stopped when he caught Poole's eyes on him, murder in their depths.

"You're not an early morning person?" he inquired, amused.

"Just not a whistling person," she told him pointedly. She thawed perceptibly when he gave her a slow smile of immense charm, with just a hint of wickedness to it.

"Duly noted. Would you like some of this?" Kimble gestured to the pan.

"That's very forgiving of you, sir." Poole gave a knowing grin. "You cooked too much."

"As we're obviously going to be seeing a lot of one another for a while, call me Richard. And I'm a forgiving sort of guy. About most things." His smile hardened when he heard Gerard's voice in the hallway.

"You sound just like Sam," she muttered. "And it's still Poole. I don't use my first name."

He gave an equable nod before his expression grew more intent. "Weren't you the one who brought me the ice for my hand after they arrested Chuck - I mean, Nichols?" His tone flattened out when he remembered the betrayal by his best friend all over again.

"That's right. Though I can't take the credit. Only Sam would have thought of that in the middle of all that madness."

"He must have quite an eye for detail."

"Oh yeah," she agreed dryly. "Detail could be his middle name."

"Deputy Renfro's made a good recovery, hasn't he?"

Poole raised her eyebrows. "From what?"

"Charlie knocked him out with a metal beam. In the laundry when I was caught," Kimble prompted.

"I forgot you know about that. He's fine, though he played the wounded hero for weeks. He told us you helped him out, which makes you one of the good guys straight off."

Kimble shrugged. "I'm a doctor. It's what I do. Though CPD arrived before I could do that much. How bad were his injuries?"

"Whose, doc?" inquired Renfro as he bustled into the room.

"You can call me anything you like, except doc. My name's Richard. We were talking about your recovery from Nichols' attack. Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

Kimble had already taken hold of Renfro's chin and was turning it to the light, his fingers gently probing the chin, jaw and cheek through the other man's ragged beard. "No lingering problems from whiplash?"

Poole sighed when Renfro happily began to detail his treatment with the enthusiasm of a true hypochondriac. Then she realized that Cosmo, who was never slow to pick up on things, had recognized that talking about medicine had brought a sparkle back to Kimble's eyes. After what he had been through in the last three years it was a wonder he wasn't totally paranoid.

After a couple of hours exploring in exhaustive detail the extent of the wooded grounds, an unenthusiastic Poole trotting to keep up with the fast pace he set, Kimble looked around for ways of killing time indoors. Since Helen's murder he had lost the ability to enjoy his own company and had tried to avoid vacations. Going to bed early, he woke at the slightest sound, taking longer to get back to sleep each time.

Waking yet again, he rolled over in bed and saw a thin strip of light under the bathroom door. Fumbling for his watch, he flicked on the light for long enough to see the face: three forty-two. Gerard was putting in so many hours on his case, it wouldn't be long before he cracked it, Kimble mused, unaware of his egocentric view of life at the moment. The team assigned to guard him seemed quick and clever and competent, and he liked all of them, but they lacked the magnetism which gave the comforting - if irritating - impression that there was no crisis beyond Gerard's capabilities.

Kimble grinned to himself as he recognized the unmistakeable sounds of the magnetic Deputy Gerard cleaning his teeth. It must have been the splatter of the shower which had woken him. Those domestic noises were a poignant reminder of some of the trivial pleasures he missed now he lived alone. In the two years during which he had tried to rebuild his life, he had begun to believe he would never find anyone he wanted to share it with for more than a few weeks.

Strange how such mundane sounds could be so comforting.

SIX

"Good morning," drawled Gerard as he swept into the room.

He appeared so suddenly that Kimble jumped and choked on the mouthful of cereal he had taken. Gerard gave him a helpful thump between the shoulder blades.

"Sorry to startle you, sir," he said with patent insincerity.

"Do you have to be so damn cheerful?" groaned Newman, who looked puffy-eyed and vaguely pathetic as he sipped his tea.

"And it's Richard," announced Poole, who was eating fresh papaya and pineapple with an irritatingly virtuous air.

"My, isn't that cozy," drawled Gerard.

Straight of back and leading from his groin as he walked, he was pacing up and down the length of the kitchen, swinging around on each turn to drive himself on. Rather than an excess of energy it was obvious he thought that if he stopped he might not be able to get started again.

"Not that I've noticed," said Kimble, tart because the deputy had paused behind his chair, making the back of his neck prickle. "Is there any news yet?"

"About what?" Making a long arm, Gerard helped himself to a piece of croissant from Renfro's plate before he reappeared in Kimble's line of vision.

"I have this faint interest in getting my life back," Kimble told him acidly.

"I'm sure you do, Richard. And we'll do our very best to accommodate you," soothed Gerard, but there was little real interest in his voice.

"Was Patterson trying to kill me?" Kimble's expression grew stony when Gerard glanced at Renfro before seeming to remember who Patterson was.

"No question about it, Richard," said Renfro. "He was about to use a sub-automatic machine gun on you."

"Given that I'm the one who killed him, I'm hardly likely to forget," Kimble pointed out, a bite to his voice.

Gerard, who had walked around the table topping up coffee for those who wanted it, sank into the chair opposite Kimble's, a mug cradled in one large hand. "You didn't kill Patterson. The post mortem showed my two shots were responsible. While all three of yours hit his torso, none would have been fatal in themselves."

"Oh." Sitting back, Kimble was disconcerted by his lack of relief - or guilt. He had expected to feel - something. He was even more disconcerted when he saw Gerard recognize what he was experiencing and give him a nod which, oddly, felt like approval.

"I know, Richard," he said.

Believing him, Kimble gained an odd comfort from their shared experience.

A phonecall took Gerard and Newman away before the former had a chance to drink any of his coffee.

"Is it always like this?" Kimble asked, conscious of the space Gerard had occupied.

Poole shook her head. "Though it's been this way since well before Christmas. Not that Sam had time to notice the festive season. This is definitely a holiday for us."

"I can't understand how anyone could enjoy this," muttered Kimble as he stared wistfully at the world visible through the kitchen windows. He didn't notice Poole and Renfro exchange a glance.

"From the way you're peering over my shoulder, would I be right in thinking you'd like to get out of the house again - even though it's pouring with rain?" asked Poole.

Kimble's face lit up. "Could we?"

Renfro proved just how good Gerard's people were.

"Hey, that's not bad, Richard," he said admiringly. "My three year old gives me a look just like that. Trouble is, you're not so cute."

Kimble gave one of his slow, crooked grins. "I'm working on it."

"And doing real well," Poole assured him, as she got to her feet.

"Give me some work to do and I'll be off your backs," said Kimble, a thinly-edged desperation behind the plea.

"My pleasure." Poole pointed from the dirty dishes to the dishwasher and went off to collect her outdoor clothes.

Kimble looked at Renfro. "Where did I go wrong?"

"Don't sweat it, Richard. Even Sam only has a limited success with Poole," the other man comforted him.

Wearing his silver-framed reading spectacles, Renfro was scribbling on a pad already covered with notes when Poole and Kimble finally returned to the house almost two hours later. Both of them were soaking wet and the tip of Kimble's nose was lavender with the cold.

"That was great," he said, in answer to Renfro's query.

Renfro gave a chipmunk grin when he saw Poole's stony expression. "I think you got your revenge for the dishwasher, Richard. You should change," he added to Poole.

"What a great idea. I would never have thought of it. You find the good doctor something to do, Cosmo. Something warm and dry," she added, her teeth chattering.

"I offered to come in," said Kimble, as Poole left the room.

"Cunning move, Richard," Renfro congratulated him.

"I thought it was pretty neat myself," Kimble conceded smugly.

"Are you any good at working with your hands?" Renfro asked out of the blue.

Kimble gave him a look of disbelief. "Is this a joke?"

"Why?" frowned Renfro.

Kimble gave his companion a patient look. "I'm a surgeon, Cosmo."

"Oh, right. I forgot you have to use your hands for that. See, while this place is being used as a safe house, we can't call anyone in to fix the washing machine. You know anything about them?"

"Not a thing," Kimble admitted cheerfully. "Helen would never let me near anything when it broke down. Do you have the manual? Never mind, I'll take a look at it anyway."

Having returned to the house for a couple of hours, which he spent on the telephone in his office, Gerard almost bumped into Renfro as he emerged into the hall.

"Hi, Sam. You got time for a coffee?"

"I wish," said Gerard, standing on one leg as he pulled on his second boot. "I lost track of time. Where's Richard?"

"In the basement seeing if he can fix your washing machine."

Gerard's eyebrows rose. "It's broken?"

Renfro heroically refrained from the obvious retort, but his expression spoke volumes.

"Dumb question," accepted Gerard wryly. "I only asked because I haven't used it for - I can't remember when. When I changed maids I took to sending the laundry out. It comes back pressed twenty-four hours later. Shit." He gave a tired grimace. "It does if I remember to drop it off. Remind me to see to it when I get back."

"Leave it to us. Which place do you use?"

"It's a couple of blocks from here. Between the drug store and deli. I've an account with them."

"No problem," said Renfro. "I'll organise a laundry rota so we keep on top of it. I don't intend to be the one who has to explain to Poole why she can't have clean sheets. She's never forgiven you for that time in the field when she had to pee in the woods."

"Tell me about it. I'm the one with the scorch marks on my back from her glare." Taking his topcoat from the peg, Gerard shrugged into it. "I know Richard is working on my washing machine, but you mind telling me why?"

"Because he's going out of his mind with boredom. He doesn't watch much TV, can't exercise all day and can't settle to reading because he's already feeling like he's back in high-security."

"That was inevitable I suppose," conceded Gerard, but he was frowning. "He OK?"

"He is now he's got something to keep him busy."

Gerard mentally sacrificed his washing machine without a qualm. "Let's hope he doesn't fix it too fast then. We both know a wet, cold Poole is an unhappy Poole."

"You heard about that?" asked Renfro, his face breaking into a grin.

"You know Poole," shrugged Gerard.

"I heard that," she said, coming into the spacious entrance hall.

"Amazing the talents this woman has," Gerard said admiringly. "Keep Richard busy. Break whatever equipment you have to. I must go," he added after he glanced at his watch. "I should be back some time tomorrow." He hesitated at the front door.

"So go. Where's your overnight bag?"

Gerard gave him a tolerant look. "Hey, I'm not that absent-minded. It's - " He paused and looked around the hall " - in your left hand," he discovered wryly. "Thanks. I must be slowing down."

"No," said Renfro, "that's the problem. You're not. In fact you're doing far too much."

"Yeah, yeah," dismissed Gerard, taking the bag from him.

"We'll take good care of Richard," Renfro assured him.

"I know it." Gerard still hovered, before he gave a grimace and left the house.

"Did you order these meals with meat in them?" asked Renfro as he sorted through the contents of the freezer.

"I think it was Biggs," replied Kimble. "So you're the vegetarian. I had wondered. I thought it must be Poole."

"Poole?" Renfro gave a crack of laughter. "Man, she'll eat anything that isn't actually fighting back. No, Sam's the only vegetarian. While he'd never tell us what to do, Poole and I don't tend to eat meat while we're with him. It's no hardship."

Kimble wondered what Gerard had done to inspire such affection.

Renfro shot him a glance. "If you want a steak, I'll get you one."

"No need," said Kimble easily. "While, like Poole, I'll eat anything, I gave up red meat when Helen and I first started dating."

Reading the other man's expression with ease, Renfro abandoned thoughts of going home. It was obvious Richard had a lot of unresolved feelings about what had happened to him - not least in the part Sam had played. One of the things he must miss most was the chance to talk about his wife; people shied away from the subject of death at the best of times and when it was murder -

"Mrs Kimble was a vegetarian?" he prompted.

"In a big way." A slow, warm, lop-sided smile lit Kimble's face. "And she wasn't nearly as tolerant of meat eaters as Deputy Gerard. She had a lot of strong opinions for someone so tolerant."

Recognizing the unvoiced longing, Renfro sat down as if he had all the time in the world.

"Do you still miss her?" he asked, when the stream of reminiscences dried up.

"Sometimes. When I'm feeling sorry for myself. Or when I first wake up. It was months before I could bear to remember all the times when we were happy. I doubt if I'll ever find someone that special again." His eyes sad, Kimble visibly roused himself from his memories.

"And you don't need to hear this. You should have shut me up."

"Hey, Richard. This is just between the pair of us, OK? I'm on my coffee-break, not department time."

The doctor gave a faint smile and tried to remember the last time he had been so open with a relative stranger - not that Cosmo felt like a stranger, which was worrying. He was obviously lonelier than he'd realized.

"That was a kind lie. You should have gone home hours ago," he discovered, looking at his watch.

Renfro shrugged. "Listen, if you need to talk and I'm not around, you give me a call. Though Poole's a good listener. Tell you what, as I'm this late I may as well eat here. You raid the freezer while I call Caroline."

Exerting himself to entertain, Renfro maintained an effortless flow of conversation throughout the preparation and eating of the meal.

"Anyway, Wesley - that's Robert's partner - calls in and says - "

"I thought you guys worked in teams rather than duos," said Kimble, side-tracked.

"No, no. Wesley's Robert's lover," said Renfro impatiently.

"Biggs is gay?"

"Is that a problem for you, Richard?" Renfro asked bluntly.

Kimble gave a private smile. "Oh no. Not at all. It was his wedding ring which threw me, that's all. Would you pass the vegetables?"

"Here you go. What's set you off grinning like a fool?" Renfro asked tolerantly.

"I was just thinking. You don't expect a Texan to be a vegetarian," said Kimble happily.

"Especially not one reared on a cattle ranch," said Renfro. Kimble's crack of laughter before he fell into helpless giggles made Renfro eye him tolerantly, glad that for once he had broken his golden rule never to gossip about Samuel Gerard.

As he cleaned his teeth that evening, it occurred to Kimble that his perception of Gerard as a cross between the Demon King and Superman was even more flawed than he had supposed. The idea of a vegetarian Demon King was still making him grin when he went to bed.

SEVEN

Kimble took refuge in the kitchen when Biggs began to watch Chicago Hope. While the doctor could sit through most things, he drew the line at medical soaps, no matter how ‘accurate' they were supposed to be. Engrossed in an article by Kathy Wahlund, which he wished he could call her about, he looked up when Gerard walked past where he sat without seeming to notice him.

The deputy looked very, very tired. On automatic pilot, he pulled a frozen dinner from the freezer and without looking at it, ripped off the cover, stuck the foil container in the microwave, set the timer and tossed the packaging in the direction of the garbage. Turning, he looked around as if trying to remember what to do next. He visibly tensed when he saw Kimble watching him.

"I thought you were in the living-room," Gerard said.

"Robert's watching Chicago Hope."

"Which can't you take - Biggs or the soap?"

Kimble wondered how many people that dead-pan delivery had deceived over the years. "Give me a break. You're lucky in your people." He had been disconcerted by how easy the various individuals were to get on with. Betrayed by his oldest friend, he had avoided trying to make new friends, keeping every encounter light and superficial, where it couldn't touch his emotions.

"I know it, Richard," Gerard nodded.

Meeting those dark eyes, Kimble had the disconcerting feeling the deputy understood a great deal more about him than he would be comfortable with. The microwave pinged before Kimble could say anything.

Sinking onto the nearest chair, Gerard peeled the top off the container and picked up a fork. It was obvious he had no idea what meal he had selected.

"Sam, don't eat that! It's meat," Kimble added, when Gerard gave him a look of surprise.

He looked down. "So it is. I forgot the kids have been stocking up on supplies. Thanks." Shoving the pack away, he pushed himself back to his feet.

"Stay put. I've had nothing to do all day."

Subsiding without a protest, Gerard wiped his face, as if hoping to eradicate the fatigue dragging at him. Then he noticed that Kimble was washing mushrooms.

"Save yourself work, Richard. A tin of soup will be fine. Two minutes after I've swallowed the last mouthful I plan to be asleep."

"Long overdue by the look of you." Kimble had already set water to boil and was now chopping onions and garlic with a speedy precision. "Fifteen minutes tops, OK?"

"Sure, whatever," murmured Gerard, taking the line of least resistance. His head propped on one hand, his eyes sank to a close.

As he worked, the doctor glanced behind him occasionally but the other man did not stir. Quietly adding the finishing touches to the simple meal, Kimble said the deputy's name but gained no answer. Moving around to face him, he lightly shook Gerard's shoulder.

His eyes opening, Gerard gave a dopey smile of singular sweetness. "Hi. You want me?"

Disconcerted, it was a moment before Kimble thought to reply, overly conscious of their physical proximity and uncomfortably reminded that there was a vulnerable human being behind the mask of the so-controlled Deputy Samuel Gerard.

"Your meal's ready," he said lamely.

The smile faded and Gerard came awake with a dizzying speed. "Right. Thanks." Then he looked at the plate set in front of him.

Flakes of hard cheese were melting into the tomato and herb sauce, pieces of mushroom and garlic nestling in the tagliatelle. There was even a sprig of fresh basil perched in the center of the display. Gerard spun it between his index finger and thumb, an expression on his face Kimble wasn't sure how to interpret.

"I've always been an over-achiever," he said apologetically. "That was too much."

Gerard shook his head. "I would have gone for it too," he said lazily. "I don't want to worry you, Richard, but we seem to have something in common."

"It isn't a new thought," Kimble told him dryly. It had been an uncomfortable realization when he accepted that Gerard had been a part of his life since the moment they stood face to face in the tunnel.

"I guess it isn't at that," said Gerard, picking up his fork.

Kimble watched the deputy eat with a neat dispatch and enviable minimum of splashing of tomato sauce.

Gerard visibly revived as he ate his first meal of the day. The raw memories of the items they had found in the house they had raided were beginning to recede in Kimble's presence. The doctor had proved himself to be tough and resourceful, but most of all he was a good man: one worthy of respect. Not that Judd and his kind were much competition, Gerard conceded as he set down his fork.

"Thanks. That was great. What's this?" he added when something aromatic and chocolaty was set in front of him.

"Comfort food. Eat." Kimble handed him a spoon.

All thought of rejecting the idea that he could possibly need comforting - in any form - faded when Gerard inhaled the sinful combination of aromas.

"What about you?" he asked, his spoon poised.

"I sinned earlier," Kimble assured him.

Needing no further invitation, Gerard enjoyed the treat with an unabashed sensuality. Licking the spoon clean after his last mouthful, he looked up to find Kimble watching him, an indecipherable expression on his face.

"Richard?"

"Yeah?" Jumping, Kimble looked self-conscious.

"Beer?" invited Gerard. Tilting his chair back, he opened the door of the icebox and hooked out two bottles of imported beer when the doctor nodded.

While all Kimble wanted was to talk about how soon he could put his life back together again, he could see the other man needed to unwind, not to talk shop. Biggs appeared while Kimble was searching for some innocuous topic of conversation.

"It's OK, I've got him," said Gerard. "Go home - or back to your soap if you'd rather."

"Thanks, Sam. I'll catch the end before I leave. ‘Night, Richard."

As Biggs ambled away, Kimble glanced at Gerard and wondered how one very tired man could project such an air of reassurance.

"That young man watches way too much TV," remarked Gerard, his index finger and thumb idly sliding up and down the condensation-slick neck of the bottle.

"Where's the harm if it helps him to unwind? I read medical journals." Kimble gave his companion an expectant look.

"I can't remember," said Gerard.

"So the books in the den are there to insulate the walls?"

"The spines pick up the colors on the cushions," Gerard replied without missing a beat.

"And you read by running your finger along the line with your lips moving. Sure."

"While I haven't had much time to read recently, I enjoy the occasional cigar. Don't give me that medical look, Richard," Gerard sighed. "I'm talking one or two a week. And I've more sense than to light up in front of you."

Kimble had the grace to look abashed. "I didn't mean to be so judgmental. And if you want one, have it."

"Bullshit," snorted Gerard, amused. "I'll survive. What is it?" he added in a different tone when he saw the other man's change of expression.

"Can you give me any idea of how much longer you'll be over this investigation? Only I thought you would have cleared it by now."

"Right." Gerard's eyebrows rose. "You're serious?"

"You mean you aren't close to finding whoever's behind these attacks?"

Gerard gestured to himself. "Personally, you mean?"

"Who else?"

"That's very flattering," Gerard said after a moment.

In anyone else Kimble would have called the expression disconcerted. "It's realistic given your success rate."

"What do you know about our success rate?"

"I watch TV, I read the papers. You're quite a local celebrity."

Gerard's mouth puckered as if he had just sucked a lemon.

"You don't like publicity?" Kimble pursued.

"Damn straight I don't. That nonsense wastes everyone's time. Four-fifths of my job is about delegating. I have an entire department behind me."

"So why are you working such long hours?"

"You're a persistent bastard, aren't you," Gerard noted, part exasperated, part amused. There was a gleam in his eye that could have been approval.

"You noticed that, did you?" said Kimble dryly.

Gerard gave a faint grin of acknowledgement. "If you weren't, I guess we wouldn't be able to have this conversation. We are kind of busy right now. And save your breath, I can't - won't - talk about the cases I'm specifically involved with."

"You work on more than one case - personally, I mean?"

Gerard shook his head at such naivety, then nodded. "I have six at present."

"Including mine," said Kimble confidently.

Gerard looked surprised. "I'm just the night watchman. It gives the kids some downtime."

It had never occurred to Kimble that Gerard wouldn't be pursuing his attacker with the same energy with which he had pursued him; he felt resentful, foolish and disillusioned all at the same time.

"I thought it was my case that was keeping you so busy," he said tightly.

Gerard's gaze never left the other man's face. "Poole and Cosmo are the best of a terrific bunch of people - though don't tell them I said so. They're making good progress but I won't lie to you, this is going to take time."

"It already has," said Kimble in a desperate tone. "I have things I need to do."

Gerard raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

"I was going to get back to work in a couple of weeks." Kimble tried to keep his desperation hidden but knew he hadn't totally succeeded.

If Gerard felt any sympathy, he kept it well hidden. "I know. We're working as fast as we can. I'm not up to speed on what's happened today. You want me to call Cosmo?" he offered.

"Making me the villain of the piece," said Kimble, his expression lightening as he recognized the tactic.

Gerard parted his hands. "Hey, I'm many things, but dumb isn't one of them. If there had been any kind of a breakthrough, I would have been notified."

Wondering who the other man was hunting down, Kimble's intellect and emotions collided; emotion won, his sympathies all with the hunted.

"Who are you after this time?" he demanded, his voice harsh.

Gerard exhaled softly. "For the record, and just so you know why we all hold you in such high regard, you've been the only innocent anyone in the department has ever come across."

"That you know about."

While Gerard picked up his bottle of beer, he made no attempt to drink from it. "How many guilty men did you meet in prison?"

Kimble shrugged. "I know," he said ruefully. "I just can't be logical about it. Or you."

Gerard looked down for a moment. "No," he conceded colorlessly.

Kimble grimaced. "Look, that sounded kind of stark. It's just - I look at you and there's a lot of baggage," he admitted in a rush.

"I understand that." Gerard had never seemed more self-contained. "Relax, Richard. You won't have to see much of me. My kids will keep you safe." He gave the other man a nod of farewell then headed out of the room the moment he stopped speaking.

EIGHT

It didn't help Kimble's feelings of claustrophobia when he recognized that he had already formed a routine with small rituals to see him through the endless days. Nothing helped with the nights, particularly as the anniversary of Helen's death drew closer. This year Kimble knew he needed to visit her graveside, but he was determined to do so in privacy. Too much of his life was still in the media spotlight; he wasn't about to confide his most private feelings to Gerard, or anyone else.

During his seventh night at the house Kimble awoke with his heart racing, convinced he was being watched. Prison paranoia - and fact. Shooting up in bed, he saw that the door to the bathroom was closing. His pulse beginning to slow, he wiped a sweating hand back over his hair, feeling limp with relief. He wasn't paranoid, he was being watched; Gerard was checking on him before he went to bed.

Taken aback by just how reassuring that knowledge was, Kimble punched up his pillows. Now he thought about it, he didn't seem to have seen much of Sam recently; it felt good to have him home.

Resettling himself, he fell asleep within five minutes.

NINE

It had been sleeting all day, a raw, cold wind making life outdoors miserable. Moisture gleaming on his hair and face, Gerard tucked the file he had returned home to collect under his arm and then paused in the center of the wide entrance hall. Renfro had told him that the doctor was reading in front of the fire; there was no possible reason to disturb him, except for the need to check for himself that Richard was safe.

Without giving himself time to regret the impulse, Gerard went into the living-room. There was only one lamp on, additional light coming from the log fire, which looked so welcoming it belonged on a television commercial. Kimble was sprawled in one of the comfortable leather armchairs, his legs outstretched, his linked hands supporting a heavy volume.

Gerard had heard enough from the adjoining bedroom to know the doctor wasn't sleeping well. It wasn't surprising. A prison was still a prison, even if it offered a log fire and the guards were well-intentioned. It had been a mistake to bring Richard into his home; he had stretched the budget in the past, he could have done it again. But he had wanted - needed - to be certain Richard was safe.

His hands deep in the pockets of his topcoat, he continued to watch Kimble's sleeping face, although what exactly it was he was looking for Gerard could not have said. He was already too aware of Kimble's physical appeal. Watching the long face, Gerard noticed with a pang that even when the doctor should have been at his most relaxed a certain tension remained. Whatever his dreams, they weren't sweet.

Wondering what book Kimble had chosen to take from the shelves, Gerard padded forward to check what the doctor had been reading.

It was obviously something Kimble had ordered while he was in custody because Gerard knew he didn't own any books on standard surgical procedures. While he had only the haziest idea what they might be, it seemed unlikely that a surgeon of Richard's eminence would need to refresh his memory. But he might need to reassure himself that he would be able to return to practising surgery again. It was impossible to spend any time in his company and not notice how he kept his scarred hand hidden from sight - when he wasn't exercising it.

Studying the pink, thread-like scars, from which the suture marks had yet to fade, Gerard realized how lucky Richard had been not to have suffered any nerve damage. Small wonder he was so desperate to return to the work he loved.

Kimble jolted awake with no memory of where he was. Out of the shadows leaping across the room came a demonic figure in black; the gargoyle face red-lit, the eyes were pits of darkness.

"It's OK, it's only me," reassured Gerard, concerned by the panic on the other man's face as he pushed himself up in his chair.

"That's the problem," snapped Kimble, before he was fully awake.

Giving a peculiar grimace, Gerard stilled the hand he had extended in reassurance, then let it fall to his side, as if he no longer knew what to do with it.

"Yes," he conceded, all emotion pressed from his voice. Turning away, he left the room without another word.

TEN

Jumpy after a sleepless night and too much coffee, Kimble was radiating nervous energy as he prowled the house like a shark cruising for a snack.

"Is everything OK, Richard?" Renfro asked finally, the other man's unusual behavior beginning to affect even his equable nature.

"Sure. Couldn't be better. I'm back in prison, under guard, with no fucking control over my life and - " Stopping, Kimble sucked air into his lungs, his head going back as he fought to steady himself.

"Sorry, Cosmo," he said shortly, avoiding the other man's gaze. During the last three years he seemed to have spent his life pretending not to notice other people staring at him.

"Sure," said Renfro easily, but he was eyeing the doctor with a worried caution. Richard usually saved any flare-ups for Sam. This wasn't good. "Look, I need to get on with some calls in the office. Before I start, is there anything I can do?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Kimble tiredly shook his head. "I'm going to make myself a drink and take it up to my room. I haven't been sleeping well recently. I could use a few hours shut-eye."

"I'll be sure not to disturb you," said Renfro. Going into the office, he closed the door and got down to work.

Slowing as he approached the entrance to his security gates, Gerard braked hard when he realized the driver in the red Corvette sailing past him on the other side of the road was Richard Kimble. He signalled to Newman, who had barely avoided driving into the back of him, to tail the doctor, then rang Renfro.

"Cosmo, you mind explaining why Doctor Kimble's driving down the road outside my house in his Corvette?"

There was a dumbstruck silence for a good three seconds. "He's taking a nap upstairs."

"No, Noah's following him east onto - I suppose Richard is alone?"

"Damn it, Sam. He must have just walked out and drove off. I've been leaving the keys out on the table behind the front door, so he'd have no trouble spotting them. Where the fuck's he going?" Cosmo added in frustration.

"Should I know? You can think of a good explanation for how come you didn't hear the sound of the engine. For now, arrange backup for Noah. Wait! It's the nineteenth today, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Then I know where Richard's going. Check his file for which cemetery Helen Kimble's buried. Today's the third anniversary of her death."

Renfro was back with the required information within a couple of minutes, during which Gerard sat drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Sam, I - "

"Save it, Cosmo. I should be able to get there before Richard. I'll check the place out."

"You're going to let him visit her grave?"

"Like I have a choice?" returned Gerard sourly.

Setting off at high speed, he took a different route from that used by Kimble and Newman. The fact the doctor stopped off to buy flowers gave him additional time to sweep the large cemetery for anything suspicious. A funeral cortege was leaving the grounds, which were otherwise deserted on this bleak, raw day. While the graves were impeccably maintained, the slush and snow and dead vegetation of the trees and shrubs added to the gloom of the place.

Shivering in the icy wind, Gerard wondered what had become of his scarf as he watched Kimble arrive, Newman a car's length behind him. Ignoring the young deputy, Kimble took a large bouquet from the front passenger seat. Straightening, his mouth tightened when he saw the other deputy.

Surveying the emotional terrain, Gerard took a couple of steps back and parted his hands. "We can talk later. For now, do whatever you need to do. We won't intrude," he added quietly, signalling Newman to cover the other entrance to the large cemetery.

Kimble was still staring at Gerard. "Won't intrude?" he echoed bitterly. "When have you ever done anything else?"

When Gerard made no attempt to reply he wheeled away. He took a moment to collect himself before he walked the thirty or so yards to the ostentatious headstone selected, paid for and erected by Helen's parents while he'd been in prison, charged with her murder. With some deliberation he turned his back to Gerard, pointedly trying to deny his presence.

Cold to the bone, Gerard lost track of time as Kimble remained crouched beside the snow-covered graveside while sleet swirled wetly around them. Two more funeral corteges came and went and still the bowed head did not move. Details of the forensic report about the Kimble apartment on the night of the murder suddenly returned to Gerard; amongst all the other items had been the poignant detailing of the rose petals scattered up the staircase and the other preparations made by a woman anticipating the arrival of her lover of sixteen years. Having checked the site of the grave before Kimble arrived, Gerard had seen the headstone, which failed to acknowledge Kimble's place in his wife's life: Helen Kimble had been buried under her maiden name. Reminded of what Kimble had been through, Gerard's expression gentled now he was not under observation.

When Kimble finally rose to his feet, his set face was pale and tense, his chin stubbornly jutting. Stalking towards Gerard he looked slightly guilty, but a defiant glint in his eyes seemed to dare the deputy to comment.

"You should have asked, Richard," said Gerard in a level voice. "Arrangements could have been made to bring you here."

"Why do you think I kept quiet?" snapped Kimble harshly. "I've had a gutful of you in my life! I didn't want you picking through Helen's bones, too." The force of the emotions roiling in him were making him quiver.

Gerard's mouth tightened but he made no attempt to defend himself, his gaze sliding away to study the ground.

Spoiling for a fight, Kimble was disarmed by the set of the dry lips and the downsweep of dark eyelashes, which gave the misleading impression of submissiveness. Then it occurred to him that Gerard, while wet and cold, hadn't made a murmur of complaint about his physical discomfort.

"Christ, let's get out of here," Kimble muttered, sounding suddenly exhausted. Fishing in his pocket for his keys, he slid inside the car, only now realizing how cold he had become. When Gerard went over to the department's black Ford Taurus he felt mild surprise that he was going to be allowed to drive himself back to the safe house. He took his time fiddling with the heater, adjusting the seat and fastening his seat belt to give his hands time to stop shaking. Then he put his head back against the rest and closed his eyes, centering himself.

Shivering while he waited for the heater in the Taurus to thaw him out, Gerard glanced into the driving mirror. His frown deepened and he wondered why Kimble hadn't driven off. The doctor was just sitting in the driver's seat with his head back and his eyes closed.

Studying the other man's reflection, Gerard's mouth thinned. Kimble looked so damn lonely - and lost - that he couldn't stand it. Switching off the ignition, he grabbed up the papers on the seat next to him, left the car and locked it before he could change his mind. The worst that could happen was that Richard would tell him to fuck off - and that would be no novelty. Richard did that silently every time he looked at him.

Kimble jumped when the passenger door opened and Gerard slid onto the seat, several files under one arm.

"You don't mind giving me a lift, do you? Great," said Gerard as he made himself comfortable.

"What about your car?" asked Kimble numbly.

"Someone can collect it." Falling silent, Gerard made himself as inconspicuous as possible while he continued to scan the area ahead of them, comfortingly aware that Newman was guarding the rear.

Kimble gave an audible swallow, his fingers whitening with the force with which he gripped the steering wheel. Slowly his breathing came back under his control, muscles relaxing. He turned the key in the ignition and glanced at Gerard.

"Is it OK to leave?"

"Whenever you're ready, Richard," he replied quietly. "There's a shortcut back to the house you might want to take."

Following the directions he was given, Kimble felt oddly glad of the company on the journey. While Gerard made no attempt at conversation, or to draw attention to himself, he was indisputably there, a comforting presence against the bleakness of his thoughts.

Kimble picked up the remote control, which had been next to the keys for his Corvette, and watched the security gates glide open. Turning into the grounds of Gerard's house he shivered; without being aware of what he was doing he slowed the car's speed along the drive which wound so much that it made the approach to the house seem longer than it was in reality.

Relaxing now they were in relative safety, Gerard watched his companion without appearing to do so. He found it unexpectedly difficult to gauge Kimble's mood; more puzzlement than grief, he thought.

Drawing the car to a halt outside the large garage, Kimble switched off the engine with obvious reluctance, took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them at Gerard, who caught them on reflex.

"What's it to be, deputy - bread and water and handcuffs for a fortnight?"

"Only if you're eager to try them," Gerard said evenly. "Please don't go off like that again."

Kimble had the sense not to commit himself, and he saw Gerard's mouth thin just before the keys were returned to him.

"It's your car, and you're not a prisoner here," Gerard reminded him. "We just made the mistake of expecting a more mature attitude from you."

Before Kimble could reply the heavy front door opened with a speed which made it obvious Renfro had been waiting for them. The look he directed at Kimble was a mixture of relief and betrayal.

"I'll speak with you in my office," Gerard said as he passed the other man. His voice had all the warmth of an arctic wind.

Nodding, Renfro went into the other room and closed the door behind him.

"I let him think I was going upstairs to sleep," said Kimble, his conscience pricking him. "It wasn't his fault."

Gerard gave him a measuring look. "Then whose fault was it, doctor? Cosmo was here to guard you. No other reason. Until I called in he didn't know you'd left!"

Kimble grimaced. "He probably didn't hear me. He's been seeing me about a medical condition."

"Then it better be critical," said Gerard grimly.

"I can't discuss his treatment with you. Medical ethics."

"You pick up that shield when it suits you," noted Gerard.

The expression in Kimble's eyes hardened but he made no attempt to defend himself.

"The security system will be reset to go off if any of the doors or windows are opened from the inside without keying in the security code. It hadn't occurred to me that would be necessary," Gerard continued as he grasped the handle of the office door.

"I can't apologize for going," Kimble blurted out.

He felt oddly empty, wondering now at his imperative to visit Helen's graveside this year when he hadn't last. He hadn't needed the visible, tangible symbol of a tombstone to remind him of his loss. Going there today, he had been more aware of the dark shadow Gerard cast in the background than of his dead wife. There had been no sense of Helen, no rush of memories. Just a mild panic, followed by an acute sense of guilt when he realized he couldn't quite get her face into focus in his mind's eye.

Gerard shook his head slowly. "Even I don't expect the impossible, Richard. I should have thought of this a week ago and made arrangements accordingly. If you'll excuse me, I need to speak to Cosmo before I leave."

Looking like a kicked spaniel, Renfro straightened from where he was propped against the wall and waited for the other man to speak.

Gerard parted his hands. "Relax. I can't say anything you haven't thought of for yourself. And I don't have the time to think of anything original. Or the inclination," he added with deliberation. "I'm due in court at two-thirty. Warn the others. We have to assume Richard could take it into his head to walk again at any time."

"Maybe he'll settle down now the anniversary's over. This has to be rough on him. Especially being in custody at this time. He might give us his word to stay put," suggested Renfro.

"Shit, Cosmo, he won't give me the time of day without snarling." Gerard sighed. "Maybe you'll have more success with him. It's obvious he can't stand having me around. I'll keep my distance as much as possible."

"I'm sorry, Sam," added Renfro. He sounded subdued and looked unhappy, but his voice was a touch louder than usual.

"I know you are," replied Gerard. "What's the problem with your ears?"

Renfro's eyes widened. "How did - ? It's nothing. They probably just need syringing, that's all. How did you know?"

"You don't miss things," Gerard said simply.

That statement of faith brought the sparkle back to Renfro's eyes.

Clapping the other man on the shoulder, Gerard went upstairs to change for his appearance in court.

Renfro narrowly avoided collision with Kimble in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Cosmo!"

"Yes, doctor?" Unsmiling, Renfro waited for the other man to continue.

Kimble grimaced. "I should have been honest with you."

"Yes, you should."

I hope Deputy Gerard wasn't too rough on you. I tried to - "

Renfro interrupted before he could finish. "Listen, Richard. It's time you started giving Sam some credit. He's not getting a kick out of having you here. All he's trying to do is keep you alive. Don't make our job any harder than it is already. You could have told us why you needed to go out," he added in a gentler tone. "We would have understood. All of us."

Exhaling, Kimble looked up. "How could you? I don't understand it myself. I'm moving - I've moved on without even being aware of it. You know the real trouble with being in protective custody - it gives you too much time to think."

Renfro patted Kimble's arm. "Come and have a coffee with me," he urged, drawing the other man into the kitchen with him. The more Kimble could be encouraged to talk, the better he would be in the long run.

"Have you made an appointment to get your ears attended to?" Kimble asked as he put away the coffee beans, after grinding a fresh supply.

"Give me a break here, Richard. We're kind of busy for me to take time off for something so trivial. Couldn't you see to it?"

Kimble sighed. "We've had this conversation. I'm a vascular surgeon. I can recommend a couple of - " Sensing someone behind him, he swung around.

Gerard was looking at Renfro. "Make the appointment, Cosmo. Now."

"Sam, I'm fine. Really. It's nothing. I can get by without - " Renfro ran out of steam under the influence of Gerard's less than benign stare.

"I thought you were over that thing of yours?"

"I am. Kind of," Renfro defended.

Kimble looked from one man to the other. "Over what?" he asked.

There was a small silence.

"Will you tell him or shall I?" asked Gerard steadily.

"I will. I hate needles," Renfro explained with a grimace. "I mean I really hate needles. And I know this won't necessarily involve any but it might and I can't do it."

"That's a common enough phobia," said Kimble matter-of-factly. "Off the top of my head I can think of two people who specialize in patients with a problem about needles. They're good people, Cosmo. You want the details?"

Renfro visibly steeled himself. "Sure. I'll call now. Before I lose my nerve."

Gerard's face broke into the kind of smile that few people were privileged to see. "You won't," he said with certainty.

Still reeling from the impact of that smile, Kimble blinked; he felt as if he was stepping off the edge of a cliff and didn't know if he was going to fall or fly. It was a moment before he realized Renfro was patiently waiting for the details of the specialists.

Kimble and Gerard listened to the other man make an appointment for the following morning.

"Good man," said Gerard, when Renfro came off the phone.

"I feel such a wuss," he grumbled, looking self-conscious.

"Well don't," Kimble told him forthrightly. "Most people have some weakness. It's just a matter of degree. Since the knife attack I find I'm hiding my scarred hand." Despite himself, he tucked it into a pocket.

"It's small spaces with me," said Gerard out of the blue, surprising both his companions - and himself.

Renfro stared at him. "I never knew that," he lied, astonished that after all these years Gerard should have brought the subject out into the open.

Gerard gave him an irritable look. "I'm hardly likely to broadcast it. I get by. Kind of. I get a bit terse at times."

"Oh, you terse is quite something," Renfro agreed, patting the other man's side. "Thanks for telling me, Sammy. I appreciate it. I'll be fine. Damn, you know it's one twenty-five? Judge Bailey would just love to get you for contempt."

"Shit! I promised I'd be early so Pauley could go over the evidence again." The last part of the sentence was indistinct because Gerard had already taken off. The front door banged, swiftly followed by the growl of a powerful engine.

Kimble looked up from his coffee to find Renfro watching him.

"Now that," said Renfro, "is the real Sam Gerard. Take time to get to know him, Richard. I can recommend it. Thanks for your help," he added hurriedly, steering clear of further sentiment.

Kimble nodded and fished his car keys from his pocket. "Sam gave these back to me. Here." He tossed them over.

"You sure you want me to keep using your car? I mean, I'll understand totally if you - "

"It's there to be enjoyed."

Renfro gave a happy beam. "Rest assured. I'm enjoying it. Caroline's threatening to cite the ‘Vette in any divorce proceedings. In fairness, that was after I'd told her she couldn't drive it," he added with evident satisfaction.

"Why can't she?"

"You mean she can?" Renfro sounded so dismayed Kimble had to grin.

"Hey, don't involve me," he begged, putting his hands up. "But she can as far as I'm concerned."

"You're a sad disappointment to me, Richard."

Kimble just grinned. "Don't despair. You might be able to negotiate yourself an interesting pay-off."

"Hey, I hadn't thought of that," Renfro said, brightening.

Having dozed during the day, Kimble couldn't sleep that night. Just after four a.m. he abandoned the pretence, dressed and headed for the gym. Going into the kitchen he was surprised to find Gerard sitting at the table, a mug of what smelt like tea cupped between his hands.

"You couldn't sleep either?" Kimble noted.

"It must be a guilty conscience." Gerard eyed the other man's workout clothes. "Isn't it kind of early?"

Kimble shrugged. "Yeah, but it beats thinking. You mind?"

"Hell, no. I'm against thinking myself. I'll leave you to it," Gerard added colorlessly. He drifted away before Kimble had the wit to call after him. Heading down to the gym, he wondered if it was his imagination, or if Gerard found an excuse to leave any room soon after he came into it.

ELEVEN

"Evening, Sam. How's it going?" asked Ritchie, when Gerard arrived home just after nine.

The older man leant back against the front door and pulled off his boots, slinging them in the general direction of the wooden rack. His car keys were tossed into the bowl which sat on the table, his gloves and coat dropped on top of the lot.

"It's going like shit, Henry. I've run out of leads to follow. None of Judd's slimeball friends have a clue where he is." Gerard's monotone delivery gave an indication of his depression - and fatigue - because he tried to maintain an upbeat face to his kids, whatever might be going on.

"Even you can't do the impossible."

Fierce-eyed, Gerard gave him a hostile look. "If I can't, he'll snatch another kid. And I can't convince the FBI Judd isn't dead."

"I don't understand why they're so set on the idea. Forensics don't support them."

"They don't help us, either. Everything OK here?"

"No breakthrough but otherwise fine. Richard is a pleasure to be with."

"He's great with washing machines, too," Gerard told him absently. "He fixed mine anyway."

"That's nothing. Since then he's been busy putting together all that equipment in the gym."

Gerard looked vague.

"The stuff you ordered eighteen months back and never did anything with, remember?" Ritchie prompted.

"I do now. You mean it works?"

Ritchie grinned. "You bet. It looks great down there. You told Cosmo to let Richard have his head," he added when Gerard still did not react.

"So I did. But if he's finished down there we'll have to find him something else to do. Maybe I should bring him in on the Judd case. Richard's a bright guy."

"He's a nice guy, too," added Ritchie. "Can I fix you something to eat?"

"Where's Richard now?"

"Watching TV in the living-room."

"I'll grab something later. There's a mess of paperwork to catch up on. Go home. Your report can wait until tomorrow."

"You need some downtime yourself," Ritchie told him.

"So do you. Go, before I change my mind."

"Don't work too hard."

"I'll fight against it," Gerard promised him.

As he left the house Ritchie wondered why Sam had taken to avoiding Kimble.

TWELVE

Standing under the flow of the water, Gerard looked up as his shower curtain was drawn back.

"Deputy," murmured Kimble.

Naked, and sporting a massive erection, his eyes were heavy and brilliant with desire as he stepped into the shower cubicle. Moving behind Gerard, Kimble pressed against the length of his body, his arms encircling him, mouth nuzzling his neck and ears, nipping and sucking him. Kimble's cock pressed against the cleft of his ass, prodding his anus. He made a soft sound and the doctor's hands encircled his cock, expertly working it until -

Unable to sustain the bittersweet fantasy, Gerard slumped against the wall of the cubicle as he jerked off with increasing urgency. As he convulsed, semen mingling with the slick lotion coating his hands and cock, his teeth closed over his bottom lip to silence the sounds which might carry above the noise of the pounding water.

Sagging where he leant against the wall, Gerard redirected the head of the shower and held his face up to the water.

He must have been crazy to jerk off while the subject of his fantasy was in the next room. Richard could have walked in on him for real at any time.

Though maybe that had been a part of what had made this time so hot, Gerard conceded wryly. Applying shower gel with a lavish hand, he began to wash away the evidence of his solitary loving, but a few seconds later he was singing softly to himself, glowing with a sense of well-being and an optimism which had stubbornly survived, despite all his efforts to suffocate it.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Kimble ambled into the bathroom to urinate.

The sudden appearance of a naked Richard Kimble in his line of vision made Gerard jump at this example of life imitating fantasy; the razor he was using nicked the side of his jaw, a small trail of blood seeping into the shaving foam. He hardly noticed; he was too busy feeling grateful that he'd jerked off, saving Kimble from more of a reaction than he would have been prepared for.

Looking up as he saw movement from the corner of his eye, Kimble stopped in his tracks. "Sorry. I never gave you a thought. I'll use the john down the hall." Giving Gerard a considering look, he paused to tear off a piece of toilet tissue and hand it to him.

Having control of himself by this time, Gerard's fingers were steady when he took it.

"Where would we be without medical science," he wondered out loud, applying the tissue to the spot. "Go ahead," he invited, jerking a thumb behind him. Shaving with short, practised strokes, for a moment the only sound was the rasp of his razor.

"I didn't realize it was this late," said Kimble as he made use of the facilities.

"It isn't. I have a pre-breakfast meeting."

Gerard flicked foam from the head of his razor. He was pleased to note that his hands were steady and his breathing normal; unfortunately he had no control over the rising tempo of his pulse or his eye movements. His gaze fixed on Kimble via the mirror, surveying the other man from his sleep-rumpled brown hair to the soles of his feet, which shifted a little as the doctor continued with his mundane task.

Small wonder that his fantasy, while arousing, had ultimately been lacking. That Kimble had been composed of imagination, optimism and remembered half-glimpses. How could it compare to the glorious reality of smooth muscle, curves and hollows that made his hands twitch with longing and a firm, perfect ass that would no doubt be giving him restless nights? He was just grateful that he was no longer sixteen and given to instant hard-ons, though his groin was sending definite signals that were hard - difficult - to ignore. It was just as well he had jerked off.

With a small start Gerard realized he really shouldn't be playing voyeur with a man he was supposed to be protecting.

The muscles of Kimble's ass twitched.

Gerard's gaze remained frozen on the sight for a few seconds longer before he found the strength of will to drag his eyes to face front. His own reflection looked back at him, the cheeks faintly flushed, the lower lip a little swollen. But it was the fever-bright eyes that disconcerted him and made him feel a little ashamed of his behavior.

But Richard did have a great ass.

Correction, Richard had a fantastic ass.

He could live with a little shame for that memory.

Comfortably positioned, Kimble shook himself dry and depressed the flush. Turning, he hooked the spare bathrobe down from the peg on the back of the door and pulled on the dark blue towelling robe. While it reached mid-calf and fastened around his midriff, it was tight across the shoulders; but it wasn't until he caught a waft of expensive perfume that it belatedly occurred to him that this was a woman's robe. Busy speculating about Gerard's private life, he settled himself on the closed lid of the toilet.

"You mind?" he asked, when he caught Gerard's eye in the mirror and realized he was under an unsmiling surveillance.

"Why should I mind? I could have sold tickets." His wet hair slicked back, Gerard wore a bathrobe of faded burgundy towelling. Half-bare and with the remnants of a summer's tan on the visible portions of his legs and torso, he seemed altogether a more approachable figure.

Disconcerted by his own behavior in invading the other man's privacy, Kimble slowly got to his feet.

Gerard waved him back. "Sit. I'm always mean till I get my first cup of coffee."

Already looking appallingly awake, Kimble gave an equable nod. "It's whistling with Poole."

"You always this lively first thing in the morning?" Gerard inquired, mildly amused.

"Pretty much," allowed Kimble smugly. "It used to drive Helen crazy. But then she was a night owl. Can I ask you something, Sam? It's personal."

The razor paused for a moment. "Sure," said Gerard, but his eyes were wary.

"It's not that personal," Kimble hastened to assure him.

"That's good."

"Yeah, I can see it's a relief to you," said Kimble dryly, before he added, "Am I paranoid, or have you been avoiding me recently?"

"Is this the personal question?" When Kimble nodded, Gerard's expression closed. "Yes, I have."

"I can't blame you for being pissed with me. I should have checked before I put up those shelves yesterday, I know."

Gerard made a gesture of impatience. "It isn't about that. I've been meaning to get round to it for months." Exhaling, he turned around and leant back against the sink to face the other man, his expression set. "Look, we both know you have good cause to hate me. I understand that. Seeing me reminds you of the past. I make you uncomfortable. It's natural you'd rather avoid me. I've been trying to make it easy for you."

As he mentally sorted through what he had been told, Kimble gave a dissatisfied frown. "I don't hate you, Sam. I never have. Though you do remind me of the past. But that's no reason for you to let yourself be turned into a bogeyman."

"I thought I already was." Gerard turned back to the sink to rinse the remnants of the foam from his face. He took his time.

"So did I," admitted Kimble slowly, his gaze on the other man's back. "Can we start over?"

It was a moment before Gerard emerged from the towel he was using to dry his face. "If that's what you want." The props kicked out from under him, he reminded himself that the best he could hope for was an armed neutrality, but he was disconcerted by how much it meant that Richard didn't hate him.

"It is," Kimble said in a definite tone.

Gerard gave a reluctant grin of recognition. "You're used to getting your own way."

"Pretty much," Kimble allowed, before he grimaced. "I sometimes wonder if I'm in danger of turning into one of those pompous jerks I used to despise when I was a med. student."

Gerard raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise.

"Thanks, Sam." Kimble's grin drew a full smile from Gerard this time.

"You can't be that bad. My kids have given you the thumbs up," he comforted.

"They're not likely to say anything else," the doctor dismissed, but he looked pleased.

"We are talking about the same bunch, aren't we?"

"Don't give me that," scoffed Kimble. "You think the world of them."

Disconcerted, Gerard held his gaze in the mirror. "You think I play favorites?"

Abruptly realizing why, despite all the odds against it, he liked this man so much, Kimble shook his head.

Unconvinced, Gerard continued to stare at him.

"Trust me, I'm a doctor."

"Yeah, right. You have much success with that line?" inquired Gerard with interest.

"None at all," Kimble admitted sadly.

"That's a relief."

"What time is it?" Kimble asked as he noticed that Gerard was wearing his watch.

"Close to five ten."

"Do you ever get a full night's sleep?"

"Sure, though I admit it's been a while." Putting his cleaned razor back in the cabinet above the sink, Gerard raised his eyebrows when he saw that Kimble was still watching him. "Another question?"

"I was just trying to remember the last time I saw anyone use one of those things."

"You use an electric shaver?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Shame on you, Richard, and you a surgeon."

"I'm not the one going around with toilet tissue stuck to my face," Kimble reminded him. His gaze sharpened. "Or the one who bit his lip. You want some more tissue for that spot?"

Gerard probed the wound with his tongue, the small smart reminding him of how it had been gained. For the life of him he couldn't control his smile of satisfaction.

"Don't gloat, Richard," he murmured.

It was then that Kimble accounted for the other man's air of well-being and the faint glow to his cheeks. He felt a fool for not having realized what must be behind it and tried not to speculate about Gerard's preferences, and what fantasy it was which slipped him over the edge. Fidgeting with the edges of the skimpy towelling robe he wore, he noticed that Gerard had taken the tissue from his jaw and was about to apply aftershave to his face.

"Sam - " warned Kimble, but Gerard had already acted.

He yelped when the astringent found the cut on his jaw. "Shi-it." He was virtually hopping up and down on the spot.

"I've never heard that many syllables in a four-letter word before," mused Kimble.

"I thought doctors were supposed to alleviate suffering," retorted Gerard, blinking the moisture from his watering eyes. "Damn, that smarts." Bare foot and with his drying hair fluffing out, he was both a far more approachable and complex figure than the Demon King of Kimble's imagination.

"You must be thinking of some other guy," the doctor told him unsympathetically. "I did try and warn you."

"Rub it in, why don't you." Gerard gave his companion a narrow-eyed look, paused, then padded over to him.

"Where did you get this?" Taking hold of Kimble's jaw, he lightly ran the side of his thumb over the scar which crossed the doctor's chin. "Cut yourself shaving?"

"Certainly not," said Kimble with dignity. His pulse leaping, he was overly conscious of their physical proximity; Gerard was close enough for Kimble to see the small oval of black hair between his flat pectoral muscles and to catch the elusive drift of his French cologne.

Gerard looked skeptical.

"Would I lie to you?" Kimble said, his eyes wide.

Gerard ran the side of his thumb back across Kimble's chin, then released him to prop his back against the wall a couple of feet away. "Is that a serious question?"

"Maybe not," Kimble conceded with a faint grin, before he looked thoughtful. "I don't think I have yet."

"Are you anticipating starting?" Gerard inquired with interest.

"That depends," evaded Kimble.

"I'll just bet it does. So, the scar. How did you get it?"

"Would you believe while I was sky-diving?"

"Not a chance."

"How about when I was deep-sea diving?"

"Uh-huh."

"Or when I fell off my bike when I was eleven?"

"That's a possibility. Is it true?"

"Guess," invited Kimble.

"It must be something real embarrassing then," Gerard mused.

"You got that much right. Have you time for breakfast before your meeting?"

Gerard shook his head with what looked like genuine regret. "Are you comfortable staying here?" he asked out of the blue.

"Sure. Who wouldn't be? This house feels more like a home than my apartment ever has. I bought the first place I saw," Kimble added, unaware of how much he had just betrayed in two sentences.

"Did you cut yourself with your own scalpel?" Gerard asked abruptly.

Kimble gave a soft chuckle. "You have a high regard for my dexterity. It's not that embarrassing."

"That's a relief. While we're asking questions, I do have one for you," Gerard admitted.

"Sure," murmured Kimble, feeling as flattered as hell.

"Would you get your ass off my john and outta here so I can use the facilities," said Gerard in the same seductive drawl.

It was only when the other man held the bathroom door open for him that Kimble realized he was being kicked out. "You want me to leave?"

"I knew subtlety was a mistake. Go. And don't waste your breath telling me you're a doctor. There are some things a man does best in private."

Kimble paused in the doorway. "I would never have taken you for a bashful guy," he mused.

Gerard aimed a swat in his general direction, a smile still in his eyes as he closed the door behind the doctor.

THIRTEEN

" - and I love you too, sweetheart. No, Mom will kill me. OK, but make it snappy. Poole. The kid wants a word with Aunty Euph," said Renfro.

"Don't push your luck, Cosmo. Hello, sweetie. Did you have a terrific time?" she added in a totally different tone as she took the receiver from him.

A couple of minutes later he took it back from her again. "That's it, kiddo. Go to sleep. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

Renfro looked sheepish as he hung up the phone and caught Kimble's eye. "Patrick's kind of excited after his birthday party," he excused.

"I'm sorry you had to miss it," said Kimble.

Renfro waved that away. "Sammy made sure I had a couple of hours off. All I missed was over-excited kids tossing up their cookies over the new carpet. Caroline's as mad as hell with Sam. Not that it will do her any good. He can sweet-talk her a damn sight better than I can."

"You know Sam well, don't you," remarked Kimble as he helped himself to an apple.

"Sam's a private kind of guy. We've worked together for eight years." Renfro's tone was not forthcoming.

"How many kids do you have?" Kimble asked, accepting that the other man was not going to gossip.

"Don't start Cosmo on his kids," Poole begged him.

"Is it our fault Roger got called in on an emergency?" asked Renfro, grinning.

Poole gave him a long, considering look and he caved in immediately.

"OK, it's my fault and I'm really, really sorry. There. Happy now?"

"Getting that way," she conceded, mellowing despite herself. "Cosmo's got five kids," she told Kimble.

"Hey, my kids, I get to boast about them," interrupted Renfro happily. "Louise is three, Patrick is five - today - Karen's seven, Bruce is nine and Alex is twenty-two."

"Twenty-two!" exclaimed Kimble, betrayed into surprise.

"Cosmo likes to give the impression he matured early. No chance," added Poole with a snort.

"Did anyone ask you?" retorted Renfro with spirit. "Technically Alex is my step-son, but Caroline and I have been together almost thirteen years. He feels like mine. He's spending a year bumming round Europe. The damn kid never rings home. It drives Caroline nuts but - You don't need to know this," he recognized, giving a rueful grin as Poole mimed sleep.

She brightened when Gerard arrived home to relieve his deputies. Sparing him a scant couple of sentences, she was out of the door and off home.

Renfro hooked down his jacket.

"You're going?" Kimble's wistful expression made the other man feel guilty.

"Hey, you've got the best night watchman in town on the job. Feel flattered, Richard. There are people who would pay serious money for Sam's services. Listen, can I get you anything - anything you can't get from the local store, I mean?"

"What esoteric sexual aid did you have in mind? I'll settle for a shovel."

"To bury Sam's body?" The surprise on Kimble's face was reassuring.

"No, so I can start to tunnel my way out." While he tried to make light of it, Kimble went up to his room so he would not have to watch Renfro leave. The walls closing in on him, he soon went back downstairs in search of distraction from his thoughts.

Gerard looked up from the file he was reading when Kimble entered the room.

"I'll be out of your hair in a couple of minutes," he promised, before he gestured vaguely behind him. "I'm waiting on the microwave."

Kimble took in all the signs of fatigue and tension in the other man. "Don't go on my account. You're my aversion therapy, remember? Or maybe I'm yours. I hate frozen dinners," he added as he rummaged through the packets in the freezer. Finding nothing of interest, he manufactured a sandwich whose contents left Gerard eyeing him with disbelief.

"Relish and peanut butter?" he queried, looking queasy.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it. Here, live dangerously." Kimble offered up his plate.

Gerard looked from it to Kimble, who gave a cocky grin.

"Can't take it, huh?"

"You really eat this stuff for pleasure?"

"It's the contrast in textures and the sweet and sour flavors that makes it so good." Kimble took a large bite and chewed with obvious pleasure.

"I just know I'm going to regret this," murmured Gerard. Taking the other sandwich, he tried to avoid inhaling as he bit into it. His face scrunched immediately and he spat neatly into his cupped hand, depositing the result in the garbage.

"Jeez, Richard, that's the most disgusting - " having washed his hand, he broke off to rinse out his mouth.

"It's an acquired taste," Kimble conceded.

"You're a sick puppy. Or if you're not, you should be. Boy, the taste lingers." Returning to the table, Gerard poked the meal he had been about to eat, pulled a face and tossed it away,

"No sense of adventure, that's your trouble," Kimble told him, watching as the other man made a salad sandwich on rye.

"Damn straight," Gerard told him, before he drank some milk from the carton. "I swear my taste buds fainted from shock. Tell me you weren't setting me up?" he added in the same tone, before he belatedly licked away the milk outlining his upper lip.

Kimble gave a resigned sigh. "You really are good, aren't you. What gave me away?"

"Your sandwich only had relish in the crust - so all you ate was peanut butter. As for being good," Gerard gave a rueful sigh, "if I was that great I would have noticed how smug you were looking before I took a bite. I bet you won't try that trick on Poole."

Kimble gave him an appalled look. "Are you insane?"

While the silence which followed was a comfortable one, Kimble searched around for some innocuous topic of conversation.

"So who do you support," he began in a casual tone " - the Cubs or - ?"

Gerard snorted.

"Hey, they've had a bad time but they'll come good," Kimble said with the optimism of a true fan.

"I'll take your word for it," Gerard said, still looking amused. "Is it that hard to find something for us to talk about?"

"You don't follow baseball?" said Kimble curiously.

Gerard's eyes looked near black and were sparkling with life. "Bad choice, Richard. I must be the only guy in Chicago who loathes baseball and who doesn't follow football, basketball or any other damn ball. Or puck," he added after a moment for reflection.

"Heresy."

"I know it." Gerard's slow, easy smile changed his entire face.

"If team sports are out, what do you do?" pursued Kimble.

"What makes you think I do anything?" returned Gerard.

"Intuition," said Kimble dryly. "Running, swimming, flying- ?"

"With or without a plane?" inquired Gerard.

"According to your deputies you could do that any time you wanted."

Gerard ignored the compliment, although Kimble was willing to swear that he looked awkward until he thought to cover it.

"I climb," volunteered Gerard.

"Climb what?" asked Kimble, blank because that was the last thing he had been expecting to hear.

"Rock faces."

"Why?"

"Because it's better than falling off them," explained Gerard, unsmiling.

"I guess I invited that one," Kimble acknowledged, amused despite himself. "Of course, you're not from these parts, are you?" His tone was that of a man searching for some explanation for an aberration and Gerard's mouth twitched appreciatively.

"You could tell?"

"I had a hint. There aren't any rocks to climb around here."

"You mean I can stop looking?"

"Get outta here. Where do you go?"

"Pretty much anywhere that I choose. I get away at weekends. And I pick a likely spot when I take a vacation."

Kimble cocked his head.

"What?" asked Gerard with resignation.

"It's just - You work so hard I suppose I assumed - "Kimble had the tact not to finish the sentence.

"That I don't have any kind of a life outside my work? There's plenty who would agree with that. My life suits me," said Gerard easily.

"And god knows not many people can say that." Kimble fidgeted with his plate.

"I'm lucky. I know it." Gerard eyed his companion's downbent head but decided against testing their fragile rapport too far.

"I used to believe we made our own luck," murmured Kimble, as he got up to make himself a fresh sandwich of dull but edible cheese and salad. "Now - Now I try not to think too much at all."

Glancing at his companion, he made a sandwich for Gerard, who inspected it with pointed care before he took a bite, nodding his appreciation as he chewed.

"We don't get many Texans this far north," Kimble mused between mouthfuls. "You get lost?"

"Sure. I headed out one morning and forgot to stop till I hit Lake Michigan. I should qualify as a native pretty soon. I've been here - " Gerard paused to make some private calculation, then grimaced " - shit, longer than I like to admit."

He was visibly more relaxed than when Kimble had come in and the doctor was determined to keep up the good work. "Don't you miss the wide-open spaces?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"I'm more comfortable with a few city blocks to take the edge off the elements. Too much sky makes me uneasy."

"You're agoraphobic?"

"No, I just prefer people to cows," said Gerard simply.

"Oh, come on. That's such a clich."

"Not in my part of Texas. You're a native of Chicago, aren't you?"

"Yeah, that's right. My idea of a wide-open space is Lincoln Park. Do you still have any family back in Texas?" Kimble added, having been speculating about the other man's personal life for some time.

Gerard finished chewing an over-ambitious mouthful. "Any family I might have is probably in Mexico."

"They all as tight-lipped as you?"

"If I ever meet them I'll be sure to ask. You want some ice cream?" It was clear that the subject of Gerard's personal life was closed.

"What kind is it?" Kimble asked, as if it made a difference.

Gerard looked unimpressed. "Just eat," he advised Kimble. He set the tub of Ben and Jerry's double chocolate on the table and tossed the other man a spoon. They soon learnt to alternate dipping into the pint-sized tub, which had a short but much appreciated life.

"Do you realize this is the first time we've had a halfway normal conversation?" remarked Kimble.

"You've got ice cream on your upper lip."

Kimble wiped it away. "Was that a snub?"

"If it was, it didn't get me far," Gerard pointed out. He sounded lazily amused until he had to swallow a yawn.

"You should be in bed."

"I'm fine."

It only took Kimble a moment to recognize what lay behind that dismissal.

"I won't try and sneak off while you're asleep," he snapped.

Gerard held up his hands. "Whoa, Richard. But thank you for that assurance."

Kimble's eyes widened. "Of all the devious, manipulative - How do you know I'll keep my word?"

Smiling faintly, Gerard shook his head. "Uh huh. I'm not falling into that trap. Is there any of that coffee going?" he added, looking hopeful.

"It will keep you awake."

"Trust me, nothing will keep me awake," Gerard assured him, but he got to his feet when he was interrupted by another yawn. "OK, so I guess I could use an early night." He shot his companion a look from beneath his eyelashes.

"Is that a subtle way of asking me to go to bed?" asked Kimble, before the double-edged possibilities of that remark occurred to him.

"I'd rather you came upstairs, yes." The left-hand side of Gerard's mouth was definitely threatening another smile but Kimble pretended not to notice.

"I can work in my room," he conceded. "Give me ten minutes or so to collect up my papers. Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite."

Gerard turned around in the doorway, his eyebrows raised, eyes wide. "Is that a Chicago thing?"

Kimble hoped his embarrassment was well-hidden, but the other man's wide grin made him accept it was a vain hope.

"I've spent too much time listening to Cosmo on the phone to his kids," he said wryly. "Just go, marshal, before I start to read you a bedtime story."

"It's deputy," corrected Gerard, with the resignation of a man required to make that correction at least once a day.

"Now I know you must be tired," teased Kimble.

Gerard grimaced. "Yeah. I'm outta here." The words ‘Sam-I-Am' floated behind him.

FOURTEEN

Remembering that he now owned a fully-functional gym thanks to Richard Kimble's clever fingers, Gerard waited until he was certain the coast was clear before he sneaked down to the cellar of his own house. Stopping in the doorway, a happy grin lit his face. Padding around the room, trying to decide the use of half the items, some of which looked daunting in the extreme, he spun around when he heard a sound behind him and saw Kimble watching him with some uncertainty.

"Cosmo said it would be all right for me to put the stuff together," said Kimble, making a question of it.

"It's more than OK," said Gerard with unfeigned enthusiasm. "I've had this stuff so long I've forgotten what most of it is. Where are the manuals?"

"There were instructions for putting everything together but that's it."

"Oh. In that case I guess it must be obvious." Gerard looked doubtful as he studied a complicated arrangement of pulleys and weights. "If not to me," he conceded, giving Kimble a look of appeal, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Does this make sense to you?"

"Sure. I did have the advantage of putting it together," Kimble reminded him. He abandoned the chance for one-upmanship without a thought. "You see?" He slowly demonstrated, glad that his days of working out were already paying off.

"You want me to show you how the other stuff works?" he asked, and when Gerard gave an equable nod, grinned his satisfaction. "Good, because I was planning to show off anyway. Step this way." Kimble's pleasure in the situation was obvious even in his walk. This was the most relaxed he had seen Gerard and he was enjoying making the other man smile.

"You'd think they'd supply manuals," mused Gerard, shaking his head over the complexities of one piece of equipment.

"They probably figure anyone spending this much on a fully functional gym would know," Kimble pointed out. "You're obviously into working out in a big way."

"It's a reasonable assumption," Gerard conceded.

"You mean you're not?" His gaze sweeping over the lean, fit figure, he gave Gerard a look of disbelief.

"Oh, I try to get to a gym a couple of times a week. I get so bored I thought I might do better working out from home. The only thing that keeps me peddling that bike is watching TV."

"And the punchbag?"

"Ah, that serves an entirely different purpose."

Kimble nodded his comprehension. "It's better than Valium. Hey, this machine is neat. You'll like this."

Curious to see what the two men were doing down here, Poole arrived halfway through the display; it always made her a little uneasy when Sam and Richard were together without a buffer because she had the constant sense that sparks were about to fly. Sinking onto the battered old couch, she ended up wearing an indulgent smile as she watched the ease between the two men, visible in everything from the light banter they were exchanging, to their close physical proximity.

They were of a height but their physical builds were quite different. While Sam seemed to fill twice the space he actually occupied, without the bulk of heavy clothing he was surprisingly lean, though as most of the female personnel would declare, perfectly formed. That straight back and wonderful ass had given a lot of people a lot of pleasure. By contrast, Kimble was a little heavier but superbly built. Poole had thought him attractive in casual clothes but in shorts and a white sleeveless top he had perhaps found his optimum look. He obviously believed in keeping fit - the firm muscles of his arms, thighs and calves were not a happy accident. Her gaze lingered appreciatively on the honey-colored thighs, before it slid up to take in the sight of the ass, wonderfully displayed in dark blue satin. Was he wearing - ?

Kimble bent over a piece of equipment, pointing something out to Gerard.

Oh yeah. Just a jockstrap. Very nice.

Gerard leaned over, the better to see what Kimble was showing him, and Poole was treated to the sight of two delicious backsides lined up side by side. Smiling contentedly, she sat back to enjoy the view.

It took a minute or so before she became aware they were talking to one another. Warm Texan and Kimble's deep, so deep, caressing voice gave her an auditory treat that made her toes curl. She wriggled happily on the sofa. What they were actually saying to each other took a little while longer to register and when it did she listened more closely, the tone rather than the words making an impression. She switched from happy drooling female to detached observer in the blink of an eye, and made a surprising discovery. Richard was showing off - and Sam was enjoying, if not actively encouraging, the display.

Damn it, Richard was flirting with Sam.

The real shock came when, watching the amused enjoyment on Gerard's face as he replied to something Richard said, she saw that the attraction was mutual - even if neither man had realized it.

Her preconceptions sent flying, Poole tried not to dwell on everything that could go wrong and refocused on the men in front of her. Kimble was comfortably settled on a bench-press, instructing Gerard to increase the weights.

"Who are you trying to kid, Richard? You'll never lift that." It was obvious Gerard was not going to give him the chance to find out.

"I might be able to," Kimble defended stubbornly.

"And I might win a Mr Congeniality award, but I'm not banking on it. You want a hernia?"

"You could be right."

"I usually am," Gerard told him.

Kimble continued to raise and lower the bar in a smooth rhythm. "You shouldn't use this when you're alone."

"Nor should you."

"It's OK, Sam. I'm down here most mornings while Richard works out," said Poole, announcing her presence.

Gerard turned and strolled over to her, wearing a thoughtful look which experience had taught her to mistrust.

"Now, I wonder why you would do that," he murmured with a smile.

"Cardio-vascular work out," she replied glibly, her gaze on Kimble as he continued to use the weights.

"I presume that means your heart rate goes up while Richard works out. Stop drooling. Though at least I know what you're doing here each morning. And you a married woman," he mocked, his voice too low to carry to the other man.

"The day I stop enjoying a fine ass is the day they stick me in a pine box," she retorted. "There's nothing wrong with a little window shopping." Over the years she had gone to some pains to ensure Gerard never realized how much pleasure his rear view gave her.

"I've heard it called a lot of things but that's a new one on me. Don't get comfortable, you have work to do. So do I," Gerard added briskly. He raised his voice. "Richard, you've done great down here. Thank you. But don't go using those weights unless one of the guys is here."

"I might be small, but I'm wiry," Poole told him, as she glared upwards.

"You have the strength of ten because you're pure in heart, but you're not up to catching for Richard. Clear?" By this time Gerard was looking at Kimble.

"Clear," he confirmed easily. "Don't work too hard."

Gerard left with a wave of acknowledgement but he did not look back.

That night Kimble awoke to a sense of being watched but no threat: Gerard, he recognized, relaxing because he was too sleepy to question the other man's presence in his bedroom. Lying on his side facing the window, he was careful to make no betraying move as he opened his eyes. Gerard was a shadowy silhouette on the window seat; he sat so still he hardly seemed to be breathing.

"It's OK, Richard. Go back to sleep," Gerard murmured, not needing to turn his head to know he was under surveillance.

"How did you know I was awake?" Kimble demanded, stretching across the unoccupied portion of the bed to switch on the lamp.

"Intuition," said Gerard sardonically. "No, don't put on the light."

Kimble propped himself up on one elbow but he felt no sense of danger; if there was any threat Gerard would be dealing with it. "What can you see out there?" he asked, curious about what could be holding the other man's interest for so long.

"See? Why, nothing." Gerard gave himself a little shake and got his to his feet. "Nothing at all."

Kimble frowned. There had been something oddly wistful about the other man, a fleeting sense of vulnerability. Now the defenses had snapped up and he felt shut out and cheated, as if something precious had been taken from him. As he watched, the heavy drapes fell to a close, swamping the room with darkness, and Gerard became one with the shadows.

"Did you hear something outside, is that it?" pursued Kimble, puzzled.

"Something like that," said Gerard. The shadows stirred as he moved. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

When he opened the connecting door he flicked on the light, revealing the stark unhappiness on his face before the door closed again and he was gone.

Remaining in the darkness, Kimble was still replaying that oddly disturbing scene in his mind's eye as he heard the sound of a car driving off. Unable to settle, he got up to make himself a drink. Renfro, who had obviously been called in without much notice, if his pulled-together look was any guide, told him that Gerard, in the company of Biggs, Ritchie and Newman had left for Iowa in pursuit of their quarry.

Kimble was conscious of an absurd sense of loss. Gerard wasn't a noisy man, or physically overwhelming, but he was vivid and vital and there seemed to be this black hole where he had been.

FIFTEEN

Renfro broke off from the story he had been telling to grab the telephone receiver. Both Poole and Kimble looked up when they heard him say, "We're fine, Sammy. Cozy as can be. Richard's just having the complete, stitch-by-stitch account of my surgery last year. Of course he's enjoying it. Not everyone is as squeamish as you."

"How is he?" asked Poole when Renfro hung up.

"Fine, according to him. So we know what that's worth. He's in St. Louis."

"What's he doing there? The murder was in Davenport."

Renfro's expression was grim. "As Sam predicted, it was a copy-cat killing. The locals hadn't done their homework. Too eager for the publicity that being linked with Judd would bring."

"So why's Sam gone to St. Louis?"

"Following his nose, he said. He only rang in to check everything was OK this end." Renfro was frowning. "I wish Sam had taken one of us. He's driving himself into the ground on this case."

"Damn it, Cosmo. He's got Robert, Henry and Noah. Don't let that sad spaniel act of Noah's fool you. He's a smart cookie - and he doesn't lose his head in a crisis. He's all grown up, Cosmo. You've gotta stop babying him. And you know you can trust Robert and Henry to keep an eye on Sam. They're just not as obvious about it as you."

"I resent that - " began Renfro.

"Only because it's true," pointed out Poole, giving him a look of affection. She began to flex the locked muscles of her shoulders and neck. "As for being with Sam, this is one time I'm damn glad to be as far away as possible. This case is - Shit," she broke off to exclaim, her eyes on the middle distance.

"Damn him. That's why Sam left us on this babysitting job. He could see we weren't handling the Judd case."

"Jeez," hissed Renfro. Running his hand through his streaky blond hair, he ended up looking like a demented gopher. "I shoulda spotted that. Like the case isn't getting to him just as much as us." He stopped as he realized Kimble was not only present but openly listening to every word. He gave the other man a hard stare.

"Do I have to remind you that anything you overhear is confidential?"

"I am a doctor," Kimble pointed out in a long-suffering tone.

"Spare me the bullshit, Richard. Yes or no?"

"Of course I understand. This Judd case must be a real horror story," Kimble added encouragingly. He was curious about the case that was taking all Gerard's concentration and energy.

"It's a nightmare," said Poole frankly. "I'm surprised you haven't caught it on the news. It was regular fare on the bulletins until three weeks ago."

"I don't watch much TV." Kimble saw no need to add that he had grown tired of being featured on it himself, seemingly as a perennial victim after the attacks he suffered on top of the famous miscarriage of justice. "Wait a minute. You mean the paedophile who's - "

"That's him," Renfro confirmed, his expression grim.

"According to the news he died in an automobile accident during his escape from prison."

"Sam thinks he's still alive. And he's been right enough times to convince me," Poole said.

"How good is Sam?" asked Kimble curiously.

"What do you think?" she returned, now he had brought the subject into the open.

"I'm biased."

Renfro gave Kimble a hard-to-read look. "In what way, Richard?"

Kimble rubbed the scar on his chin, then gave a rueful grimace. "Promise you won't tell him?"

"That depends," said Renfro, looking disapproving.

Poole gave him a gentle nudge. "Get a grip, Cosmo. OK, Richard, let's hear it. But if you've swallowed the legend of Sam Gerard I'm going to be very disappointed."

"What legend is that?" Kimble countered, reluctant to commit himself.

"The usual stuff. Always gets his man, is never wrong, scales tall buildings in one bound - and eats iron filings for breakfast."

"He seems to prefer doughnuts, but apart from that, pretty much," Kimble conceded. "I don't know why you're looking so superior. You should try being hunted down by him. It's an awesome experience."

"That's our Sammy," said Renfro, "awesome. He does OK," he allowed, so puffed up with pride that Kimble expected to see him pop at any moment.

"He told me four-fifths of his job was delegating," murmured Kimble into the silence.

"He tells me exercise is fun, that doesn't mean I have to believe him," retorted Poole. "He delegates plenty and still does the work of two."

Getting to his feet, Kimble lightly touched her on the arm to gain her consent before he began to work the knotted muscles of her neck and shoulders.

"Oh, this feels so good," she virtually purred. "Cosmo, you've gotta let Richard get to work on you. You have talented hands, doctor."

For a moment the massage faltered. "I used to. But until I'm out of here I'm not going to know if that's still true. How much longer, Poole?" His voice low, Kimble could not meet their eyes as the reality of his loss of freedom swept over him again.

Reaching up, she patted the hand resting on her shoulder. "While it might not always look like it, we're doing all we can."

SIXTEEN

Poole's whoop of delight brought Renfro and Kimble into the living-room at a run, where she had just switched on the television to catch the midday news.

" - capture of the man the other authorities claimed was dead is U. S. Marshal Samuel Gerard. Kevin, what does the marshal have to say about - ?"

Mesmerized, Kimble stared at the television screen, where the picture had moved from the newsdesk to live coverage. Gerard, Newman, Biggs, Ritchie and two other men he did not recognize were escorting a solid-looking white man, who was passed into police custody in an official handover of responsibility.

The media circus hurled Kimble back in time. His memories were confused but above all else he remembered being blinded by the lights, and the wall of noise beyond the people shielding him with their own bodies. But most of all he remembered the calm center of the storm that was Sam Gerard as he padded along at his side, all his ostensible attention on the crowd - except for one moment of eye-contact; a reassurance Kimble hadn't known he'd needed until he'd received it. During those first hours the deputy had been his lifeline to sanity, just as he had previously been his Nemesis, springing up when he was least expected; uncompromising, single-minded, and as intimidating as hell when he put his mind to it.

"Another triumph for Deputy Gerard," Kimble said, in a voice which sounded strange to his own ears.

"Sam's done great, hasn't he," enthused Poole. She paused when she recognized Kimble's expression. "Look, I know seeing all that," she gestured broadly in the direction of the screen, "must bring back what you went through but trust me, the only thing you and Judd have in common is the fact you're both breathing. Don't kid yourself this guy is innocent. There's enough solid evidence to ensure he never gets hold of another child."

Renfro was still staring at the television screen but seemed oblivious of the commercial break which was showing. "It's funny, after all these years I still expect guys like Judd to look different. Like they should have some distinguishing mark. The FBI sure fucked up on this one. They were convinced Judd burnt to death in that auto accident up in Evanston."

"But Deputy Gerard knew better." Kimble could not keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"Obviously. He's captured Judd, hasn't he. And there isn't a parent who won't sleep easier tonight because of that."

Kimble glanced at Renfro's face and knew why Gerard had taken the other man off the case.

SEVENTEEN

Making fresh coffee, Kimble idly picked up the newspaper on top of the pile sitting on the kitchen table; Judd's capture was front page news, media hysteria rife. Tucking the papers under his arm, Kimble took them into the living-room. Having been the victim of so much media attention himself, he was looking forward to reading about granite-faced Marshal Gerard, who always got his man. Clich was piled on inaccuracy. The photo of Gerard was unflattering in the extreme, making him seem a far more sinister figure than Judd.

Tossing the tabloid to the floor, Kimble unfolded the broadsheet. His feet up over the chair arm, he began to read, but the grisly list of Judd's offenses, plus the discovery that Gerard had arrived too late to save Judd's last victim, wiped the smile from Kimble's face. No wonder Sam had looked so grim, he thought, wishing he'd paid closer attention to yesterday's newscast.

He took little notice of the noise coming from the entrance hall until he heard Renfro give a pleased exclamation.

"Man, we didn't expect to see you back yet. You did good, Sammy."

" - pining for your happy, smiling faces," said a familiar voice. Gerard swept into the room, bringing the scent of frosted air with him as he took in everything there was to see in one encompassing glance.

"I'm glad to see you've made yourself comfortable, Richard." His tone smooth and sweet as molasses, there was nothing remotely pensive or wistful about him today. This was the in-your-face adversary Kimble remembered best. Such was the impact of the other man's personality that the very air seemed suddenly charged.

Without being conscious he was doing so, Kimble swung his legs off the arm of the chair, sat up straight and folded up the newspaper he had been reading. He gave the collar of his polo shirt a quick tweak, before brushing a hand first over his hair, and then his chin.

Formally dressed in a dark, well-cut suit, white shirt and silk tie, Gerard dropped his coat onto one of the sofas and shot Kimble a searching glance. While his face was drawn, his dark eyes were snapping with life. He was exuding so much vitality Kimble half-expected to see him emitting sparks.

"Cosmo, a word with you in the office. Richard, we'll speak later. I hear you've been bored while I've been away. I'll have to see if I can't change that." The promise had the sound of a threat.

Renfro trailed after Gerard as if he was attached on a string, looking unhappy at the prospect in front of him.

Absurdly Kimble was reminded of a saying he had heard somewhere. ‘Hell's hell, the devil's back again.'

"OK, Cosmo, save the bullshit. What have you got for me?" Kimble heard Gerard say before the two men moved out of earshot.

Feeling as if he was waiting in the Principal's office, the doctor kept reminding himself that he could leave any time he wanted throughout the seemingly endless wait. Gerard finally re-entered the living-room with the same lack of warning with which he had left it.

"Richard, could we have a word in my office? Now," he added in the same mild tone, when Kimble nodded and stayed where he was.

"Can't we chat here?" he asked pleasantly, aiming to maintain the illusion of control.

Gerard raised his eyebrows. "My my. What a charming thought. This isn't a social occasion. I intend to get this interrogation on tape. At your convenience, of course." He stood back from the doorway.

"Interrogation has an ominous ring to it," joked Kimble as he crossed the hall, uncomfortably aware that the other man was a pace behind him the entire way.

"Does it?" Taking the file Poole was holding out for him, Gerard scanned the contents as he walked unerringly through the arrangement of chairs in front of his desk. A subdued-looking Renfro avoided Kimble's gaze.

Seating himself, Kimble's eyes widened when he saw that Renfro had set up a tape deck and was now unwrapping audio cassettes. The crackle of the discarded cellophane as it uncrumpled again seemed inordinately loud. Kimble surrendered to the urge to move on his seat and was pinned by an assessing look from Gerard that was so hostile he automatically braced himself.

"You'll be delighted to hear you have my undivided attention, Richard. So speak to me."

"About what?" snapped Kimble.

Gerard's unblinking stare left the doctor experiencing a fleeting empathy with a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.

"About why someone wants you dead."

Kimble swung around to stare at Poole and Renfro. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," said Renfro, falling silent when Gerard stared at him.

Kimble divided his glare between them. "I'm not feeble-minded, and I'm certainly not the guilty party. What's been going on? I can't - won't - spend the rest of my life in custody. I want to get back to work."

"Frustrating for you but not the end of the world." Gerard sounded faintly bored.

"Sam," protested Poole, only to be silenced by a quick, fierce frown.

"Would you mind telling me what this is about?" demanded Kimble. "If something's happened, I have a right to know about it."

"Nothing's happened. That's the problem," said Gerard. "We need more information from you. I intend to get it."

"You're welcome to try," snapped Kimble, ruffled.

"Why, thank you, doctor," said Gerard smoothly. "We'll start with your former patients."

Outrage kept Kimble silent as, despite the fact he had given them no help of any kind, Gerard made a roll-call of every patient Kimble had come into contact with, and a couple of referrals he had forgotten about. Patients were named and discussed between the three deputies with a dispassionate thoroughness which made it obvious Gerard's trust in the abilities of his people wasn't misplaced.

"Damn you," grated Kimble in a low voice, his chair jarring back as he got to his feet. "I don't care what excuse you make, there's no possible justification for violating doctor/patient privilege."

Slamming the office door behind him helped - a little. He got as far as the front door before he remembered that walking out wasn't an option at his disposal. Or only if he was prepared to risk someone else's life - Kathy's perhaps.

Giving a shuddering sigh he slowly closed his hand into a fist and brushed it against the door jamb, his control more eloquent of his despair than fury would have been. After a moment his bowed head sank to rest on his fist.

The sound of footsteps on the polished hardwood floorboards made him tense before he slowly turned around. The ferocity of his expression intensified when he saw it was Gerard who had come after him - the last person in the world he wanted to see right now.

"I can't believe my life's being screwed again - and by you, of all people," he muttered, fighting his rage at having control of his life taken away for a second time.

Kimble's head tilted back against the front door, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat as he swallowed. Feeling hunted and at bay, he was looking everywhere but at Gerard; he couldn't bear to see the other man watching him with no more interest than he would give to a fly beating against the window.

"Seen enough?" demanded Kimble spikily, when Gerard made no attempt to speak. He had to look away from that cold, cold stare. "You don't have to follow me everywhere, I'm not going to run away."

"That's lucky. I was wondering when you were going to stop feeling sorry for yourself." The hint of contempt in the deputy's voice stung. Severe and unsmiling, Gerard looked as if he was pacing himself; he probably had no choice. The shadows beneath his eyes were grape-black and set deep under the skin, his facial muscles slackened by the fatigue he had forgotten to disguise.

"Fuck you, Gerard."

The dark eyebrows rose. "Do I detect a note of hostility here?"

"If you're in any doubt, I'm not projecting it properly. What is it with you? Every time we exchange two civilized sentences you slam the door in my face." Firing up as he spoke, Kimble pushed himself away from the door. "Do you know what my very first memory of you is?"

"Pointing my gun at me?" inquired Gerard, his emotions locked down.

"Oh, no. It was long before that."

Gerard was betrayed into surprise.

Kimble snorted. "You forget, like it or not, you're a public figure. I first saw you being interviewed on TV about the Lamine case. You already had a reputation for being an honest man - listening to you I could understand why. I remember saying to Helen that you sounded the kind of guy I'd like to meet. Don't think those words haven't haunted me since."

Gerard raised his chin. "And your point is?"

"That you're a lying bastard," said Kimble with some deliberation, a harsh undertone to his voice.

Gerard didn't twitch, but there was a split second when Kimble was seriously afraid. The silent warning wasn't enough to stop him from pursuing the point, his voice unsteady with the force of the emotions roiling in him.

"I believed you were an honest man right up to the point when you lied to me. I was on the run, desperate for someone who would take me seriously. I find I'm holding a gun on you and I've never been so fucking relieved in my life because I thought - I really believed - that justice would be more than a word to you. So I tell you I didn't kill Helen and what do I get? ‘I don't care.'"

Breathing hard as he was racked by emotion, Kimble stared at the stony-faced man in front of him. "Do you have any idea what that felt like?" he whispered harshly, reliving the despair of the moment. "Of course you fucking don't. Well, I'll tell you anyway. It was the final betrayal by the whole lousy system - confirmation that I had no one, because you'd been my last hope. And you didn't care."

Gerard moved slightly then, and Kimble refocused, self-derision twisting his face.

"Pathetic, isn't it, expecting you to understand. But I forgot, I'm not allowed to feel sorry for myself, am I? Well, we can't all be like you, marshal. So you contemplate your perfection while the rest of us carry on as best we can."

Without moving Gerard gave the impression of blocking Kimble's path. Implacable and unyielding, there was not an ounce of give in him. "First, I have some more questions for you, sir."

Kimble's mouth twisted. "Only you could make an insult of the word. Has it ever occurred to you that you might have spent too long in the company of men like Judd?" Without waiting for any reaction he brushed past the other man and stalked into the office.

Gerard remained where he was for almost a minute, but a muscle was still jumping in his jaw when he returned to his desk in the office.

Kimble looked up from where he was slouched on his seat with every appearance of ease. "Bring on the thumbscrews," he invited. "Should I be grateful I'm not in handcuffs?" He held out his wrists.

Poole and Renfro, who had heard the entire exchange between the two men, shared a glance but otherwise kept their heads down and their mouths closed.

Gerard gave Kimble a considering look but made no attempt to reply. Reseating himself, he continued to read aloud from the report on file, unerringly picking up at the spot where he had broken off.

Kimble sat in a brooding silence, his angry, resentful gaze fixed on the man he held responsible for taking away his freedom. Absorbing the fact he would not be practising surgery in the foreseeable future, it was all he could do to stay on his seat. He unconsciously flexed and relaxed his hand, rubbing his thumb across his finger tips as if to check on the amount of sensitivity he still possessed.

"Have we missed any salient details?" asked Gerard. He eased back in his chair as if trying to find a position of comfort.

"I don't discuss my patients with anyone." The heat of Kimble's glare collided with the chill of Gerard's.

"Very laudable, doctor. But not a lot of use to us," Gerard said at last. "What have we missed?" he added to Renfro and Poole.

Ideas were tossed into the pot, argued and discarded in the space of seconds. Kimble shared his glare impartially between the three deputies as they played around with his life as if it was some mildly entertaining game.

"Is something wrong, Richard?" Poole broke off to ask.

That was all the invitation Kimble needed, his resentment spilling over. "This is my life you're dissecting. You should try being reduced to ‘a case' and see how you like it."

"Don't sulk, Richard," growled Gerard.

Renfro slid down on his seat and tried to look as if he wasn't there; Poole studied her hands and Kimble sat debating methods of murder, an expression in his eyes which his friends would not have recognized.

His shoulders hunched, as if adjusting to some new burden, Gerard leant forward in his chair and focused all his formidable will in Kimble's direction.

"Talk to me."

"Pass."

"Very constructive. Who out of your acquaintances, friends or lovers might have a motive for wanting you dead?"

"I don't know." Pure frustration echoed in Kimble's voice.

"Not good enough. You have a brain, apply it to the problem." Gerard's voice was like the crack of leather.

Barely camouflaging his flinch, Kimble raised his chin and locked glares with the deputy before he visibly remembered Gerard was supposed to be on his side.

As if sensing Kimble's change of mood, Gerard sat back. Linking his fingers over his flat belly, his thumbs twisted and turned without ever making contact as he continued to watch the other man.

"I can't believe Devlin-MacGregor would bother with me, least of all in this way," mused Kimble, trying to be dispassionate about it.

"I never have believed it," said Gerard. "So?"

"It could be anyone," said Kimble, considering the problem as if it belonged to a stranger.

"This is getting us nowhere. You can't be more specific?"

"About what?"

Gerard visibly got a rein on his temper. "Anything would be good," he said tightly.

Kimble exhaled noisily. "From the moment you brought me in I've been in the media spotlight. Even now, every time you catch your man, I get journalists ringing me up, camping outside my door, plaguing the hospital - just to hear what it's like to be pursued by Deputy Marshal Gerard."

The muscles around Gerard's eyes tightened.

"It's nothing I can't handle," continued Kimble in a dismissive tone, "but I'm sick of you being a constant, uninvited part of my life. I thought about moving out of the area but I'm damned if I'll let anyone dictate my actions again. Then there's the response I get from the public - and it's nothing like as bad as it used to be. I got mail like you wouldn't believe in the early days. Hate mail, pornography, letters of support, begging letters and letters from people asking me how I got away with it."

It was Poole's turn to wince; on a roll, Kimble did not notice.

"I must have heard from every nut, inadequate, lonely person - and a few I couldn't begin to fathom out. After a while I had my bills sent to my lawyers and I trashed everything else unread. Then there were the phonecalls, the packages - some gifts, most not. I even had a couple of stalkers."

Gerard's expression grew more intent. "That's not on file."

"You've been keeping a file on me?"

"The Chicago Police Department's file."

"Oh." Kimble felt curiously deflated.

"Why didn't you report the stalkers?" pursued Gerard.

"Are you serious? The only thing which would interest CPD is my suicide - or murder. There are still those who are convinced I got away with killing Helen."

Gerard nodded without seeming interest, which stung Kimble's already raw sensibilities.

"Am I boring you, deputy?"

"Not yet, Richard. Rest assured, you'll be the first one I tell."

"Sam," began Renfro.

Gerard raised his eyes, pinning the other man where he sat. "Save it. I don't need you and Poole here for this. Go do something useful."

Kimble unconsciously tensed. If Gerard was using this tone on his kids, it was an indication of his frame of mind. He shot a glance at Renfro, sensing that he and Gerard had fought about something to which he was not a party.

"Shut the door behind you," instructed Gerard, his hard stare boring into Renfro when the other man paused in the doorway.

"Let's go back to the very beginning," he said to Kimble. "Do Helen's parents still believe you murdered her?" His mild voice made the question all the more obscene.

For a moment Kimble thought he must have misheard until he met Gerard's chilling gaze. It was then that the doctor began to appreciate just how bad this was going to be, the other man's shock tactics concentrating his thoughts wonderfully.

After a tape's worth of remorseless pressure Kimble felt as if he had been run over by a steam engine. He privately conceded that if this was Gerard's interrogation technique when he was tired, he would rather avoid one when the other man was wide awake.

The questions followed no discernible or logical pattern as they leapt from subject to person and off on another tangent. From a patient to his maid, Kathy Wahlund to his secretary, Helen's father, the death of his parents in an automobile accident -

A tension headache took Kimble in an iron grip.

"When I last saw my brother is irrelevant," he said irritably, with what he hoped was finality.

"I'm not Cosmo. I decide what's relevant. Speak to me, Richard."

A knock on the office door provided a welcome respite.

"A word with you, Sam," said Renfro crisply.

Gerard's mouth thinned. "Later."

"It's important."

"No, you think it is. There's a difference. Let me get back to my job while you do yours. If you can't manage that, say so and I'll replace you."

The anger on Renfro's face faded to a hurt acceptance. "You can be a regular asshole when you put your mind to it, can't you," he said quietly, before he closed the door behind him.

Kimble felt a pang of unease when he looked back at Gerard. Anyone with any sense would have been intimidated.At their worst the CPD hadn't come close to inducing this sense of dread. He refocused to find Gerard staring at him intently.

"What?" demanded Kimble.

"I asked about your brother."

"For chrissake, what is it with you? I haven't seen Neil for twelve years - and that was by accident. He's thirteen years older than me and we never had anything in common but blood. He's a successful commodity dealer in New York."

"And?"

Kimble finally gave Gerard what he'd asked for. "And he doesn't care enough to want to harm me. I'd stake my life on it."

"You are, Richard. With every answer and evasion you give me."

Gerard flicked on the lamp, the glow spreading across the desk top to highlight his lower face. Accentuating the jut of his eyebrows and the harsh planes and angles of his cheekbone and jaw, it left his eyes in darkness. He was an unsettling figure at best, sinister at worst.

"Now, about Kathy Wahlund," he said.

"She would never - "

"See your wife murdered and stand back while you faced the death penalty? Nichols did."

Kimble flinched. Charles Nichols and he had been friends for twenty years - or so he had believed. It was a betrayal he had yet to understand, and it haunted every relationship he had tried to form since. If his judgement could be so at fault where Chuck was concerned, he had no sense of who he could trust. And he missed that, more than he knew how to express.

"You really enjoy your work, don't you, marshal," he said harshly.

"I'm just trying to do my job. The sooner you help me out, the sooner it's done."

Kimble opened his mouth, then closed it again to stare at nothing. "It isn't Kathy," he whispered at last.

"What makes you so sure of that?" asked Gerard. His voice softened as he coaxed the other man into making a fuller reply, using whatever worked to get the information he needed.

One tape later they reached the topic of the doctor's lovers over the last nineteen months. By this time Kimble just wanted this session over before he gave in to the desire to leap across the desk and batter Gerard unconscious for the contemptuous disregard with which he fucked with every person and every memory that Kimble cared about. Doing his best to hide his feelings, so that he should have something left he could call his own, he supplied a list of names, but nothing made the exercise bearable. There were not many on his list but it sounded a lot to him because his sixteen-year marriage had accustomed him to fidelity, after a highly promiscuous period in his youth.

"Ginny Vidal, the writer. I met her while I was speaking at a conference in San Franciso the year before last. The fifth of September was the first day of the conference. I already had a vacation booked and no plans, so I stayed over for a couple of weeks. The last was Doug Ross. He's a paediatrician at County. We were lovers for approximately three weeks in last autumn. We parted on the best of terms. I still see him occasionally at the sports club we both use. He's in a committed relationship with a physician now and - "

Kimble's voice faltered when he looked up and found himself pinned by a savagely angry gaze. Childishly he had hoped to disconcert the other man when he mentioned a male lover but he had the uneasy feeling he was going to get more than he bargained for. Under his apprehension he felt a sick sense of disappointment; for some reason it had never occurred to him that the other man might be a homophobe. Biggs was homosexual. Surely if Sam despised gays he couldn't - Ah, of course. It was clear from seeing Gerard with the other deputies that there was a bond between them. What was unacceptable in a stranger was so often excused in a friend or family member. And Kimble knew he was neither.

Feeling battered and bruised after this endless interrogation, and the knowledge that the man he had unconsciously looked up to was a bigot, Kimble longed to find some chink in Gerard's armor.

"There must be something else you want to know. My favorite position? What kinks I have? Have I tested clean?"

Gerard had himself under control by now, his gaze on the nib of his fountain pen, which was in danger of being ruined by the pressure he was exerting on it as he doodled on a piece of scrap paper.

"If it has a bearing on this investigation then I'm interested," he returned tonelessly.

Kimble slammed the flat of his hand on the desk top but the other man did not flinch. "None of this is relevant. You fuck with my life as if it's some boring comic you're flicking through. What's the problem, marshal, not enough pictures for you?" He leant forward to snatch up the file from which the deputy had been reading.

Gerard instinctively grabbed Kimble's hand. Seeing he was gripping the one injured in the knife attack, he released the doctor as if his touch burned.

Still conscious of the power there had been in the other man's grip, Kimble pulled his hand away fully. He had yet to accustom himself to the way people's eyes lingered over the scars - as if wondering how a surgeon could still function. But that Gerard should find them repulsive - Without realizing what he was doing, because it had become such a habit, Kimble tucked his hand out of sight.

"For the department's eyes only," said Gerard, gesturing to the file.

If Kimble hadn't been so wired he might have picked up on the apologetic tone.

"Is there any one or thing else?" continued Gerard.

"You haven't heard enough?" retorted Kimble bitterly.

Gerard parted his hands in an oddly eloquent gesture that succeeded in prodding Kimble's public spirit back to life.

"I can't think of anyone else," he said sullenly. "Helen was my only lover for over sixteen years. She was all I wanted."

The nib of Gerard's pen dug through the paper; he casually crumpled the sheet and tossed it away.

"None of the people I mentioned - A month would be the longest I saw any of them. Some were only a night or two. But then I expect you already know that. Does delving into other people's sex lives make up for some deficiency in yours? Is that it, marshal?"

Gerard's only reaction was to recap his fountain pen and lean forward to switch off the tape recorder.

"The interrogation's over?" Kimble checked, wary of relaxing.

While the doctor tried to sound casual, Gerard was painfully reminded of the man so desperate he had dived from the overflow outlet into the spillway. The memory of Kimble's expression had haunted him for months. Abruptly Gerard relived the moment when he had stared down the muzzle of his own gun and been certain he was going to die. Strange that after all he had seen and done, the near misses and the times when it seemed as if his luck had run out, it should be that moment he remembered the most. Damn, but that water had been cold. And Richard had jumped into that spillway rather than be taken -

"It's over," Gerard confirmed. A wave of exhaustion swept over him now he no longer needed to project the illusion of vitality.

"It's over," echoed Kimble, his deep voice unsteady with the effort it took him not to explode. "You take my life, squeeze out the pulp and expect me to be grateful? Prison's supposed to be the place for rape. So why do I feel so royally fucked?"

His head bowed, Gerard was tracing his capped pen over the outside of the file. "It was necessary," he said in a monotone.

Getting to his feet, he turned the file around and pushed it across the desk to Kimble - in contravention of his own rule and what he had just told the other man.

Kimble was reading it before Gerard reached the door. The first item was a note in the deputy's handwriting.

‘Confirm RK's HIV result clear. Potential motive.'

Seconds later Gerard was being confronted by an infuriated Richard Kimble.

"You have a question, you ask me! You don't pry into confidential hospital records. Not that you'd be able to get into them! Yes, I test regularly. And I'm clean. You bastard. Not only am I a surgeon, but six weeks ago I had surgery myself. You think I'd put patients or a colleague at risk - no matter how slight?" Kimble thrust his face into Gerard's.

"What about you, marshal? Are you clean? Or do only queers get AIDS? Oh, I forgot, I'm only here to answer questions, aren't I."

"Richard, you - "

"That's doctor to you, deputy marshal." Cold and clipped, Kimble's voice was that of the eminent vascular surgeon depressing the pretensions of a brash intern.

Gerard suddenly looked very tired. His mouth tightening, he parted his hands. "OK, sir. Whatever you say," he murmured. When Kimble made no response Gerard walked away.

The moment Gerard was unobserved a hand went to his side, which felt as if someone was holding a lighted match to the spot. When Renfro intercepted him seconds later, Gerard dropped his hand from the site of the injury and found some energy from somewhere.

"You have something to say, Cosmo?"

"Plenty, but this isn't the place for it. In here," Renfro stood back to allow Gerard into the living-room, then closed the door behind them. Poole was already there, her expression giving nothing away.

Gerard leant against the closed door. "Is this the lynch mob?"

"No, but maybe it should be. What the hell was that in there?" Renfro demanded, jerking his thumb angrily in the direction of the office.

"That was me doing my job."

"If that's what you really believe, you've lost it. Richard isn't a suspect. We're supposed to be looking out for him."

"That's what I'm trying to do," said Gerard tiredly. "Christ, you think I get off on crucifying the guy? But he had to be made to open up."

"Oh, he'll have opened up. You left the room knee deep in his guts. Don't be surprised if he decides to walk. I, for one, won't blame him. If your judgment's so shot you can't see what you've done to him maybe you should consider stepping back from this case and letting me handle it."

Gerard's head turned whipfast. Unintimidated, Renfro glared back at him but his voice was cajoling the next time he spoke.

"Sam, I'm not the enemy here. Whether you want to admit it or not, you were too rough on him. Your judgment's compromised because you're having a reaction to the Judd case. You're depressed, exhausted - "

"And in pain," cut in Poole, who had been watching Gerard intently.

Renfro turned immediately. "Sammy?"

"Sore," dismissed Gerard, irritable that he must make the effort for this.

"Why?" pursued Poole, placid in the face of his glare.

"There was a ruck when we caught up with Judd. I collected some bruises and messed up my side."

Poole gave him a considering look. "Shouldn't that gunshot have healed by now?"

Gerard shrugged. "We've been on the move a lot." Unfastening his tie and shirt collar, he stayed on his feet because he would fall asleep otherwise. "You think I've lost it?" he asked her brusquely, his eyes never leaving her face.

"That's always a possibility. You know the writers of the crank letters were both arrested the day before yesterday. There was no need for you to interrogate Richard. In fact he should be allowed to get back to his own life."

Gerard evaded facing up to the fact he had been avoiding since he had been told about the arrests. "Two of the cranks were caught. Read the reports again. We pay the experts enough to produce them. They say there are two, possibly three clear personalities at work. The dangerous one is still out there."

"So you claim," snapped Renfro. "By the time you'd sweet-talked the psychologist she would have said whatever you put into her head. All the crank letters were made up from cutouts from local newspapers. There hasn't been anything from this hypothetical third person in all the time Richard has been in custody."

"You concede there is a third person then?" Gerard took two extra-strength Tylenol with the dregs of Poole's cold tea.

"It's only a possibility - and a faint one at that. What you put Richard through just now was - "

"You said. I know you like the guy. Hell, I like the guy. But pussy-footing around while you waited for him to decide to cooperate was getting us nowhere. Check the notes and tapes. Tape three in particular. I got a lot of stuff from Richard that he's never bothered to mention before. Trivial, if spiteful, incidents in themselves but they have the feel of being part of a pattern. Itching powder in the handcream he uses after surgery. Letters turning up in his office - that's the room he actually uses, not the one officially allocated to him. Nuisance calls from within the hospital. The message ‘You are mine' coming up on his pager. Poison ivy tucked into the sleeves of his jacket. It has to be someone working at the hospital."

"The first writer was a religious nut with a fixation on Richard. No access to the hospital. But the second was a porter there. He had the means, motive and opportunity," said Renfro, in a point-scoring tone that would have ruffled more even tempers than Gerard's.

"Would Bellamy send Richard red roses?" returned Gerard.

"Romantic," noted Poole.

"Not real roses. Plastic and paper flowers and cutouts from flower catalogues, magazines, cards. Hundreds of them. Not that Richard counted."

"You think the number of roses might have been a clue?" asked Poole.

Gerard gave her a weary look. "Like I'd know."

"It could be a ploy to throw us off the scent. Make us think it's a woman. Or a gay."

"It could be a cross-dresser with a taste for big-eyed surgeons," retorted Gerard with thinly-veiled impatience.

Interested by his choice of words, Poole wore a thoughtful look.

"When he could remember them, Richard gave me an indication of the dates the various tricks were played on him. They gradually became more dangerous. See if they tie-in to anything else going on in his life," commanded Gerard.

"Now you're really searching," snapped Renfro. "We've got the cranks. It's over. Not that we should have ever been involved in investigating the attacks on Richard in the first place," he added with a renewed sense of grievance.

"It isn't over," said Gerard with the certainty which could make him so infuriating at times.

"Right," snorted Renfro.

"Do I need to remind you not to discuss any elements of this investigation with Richard - particularly not the arrest of the cranks?" continued Gerard evenly.

"I don't need you to tell me my job," bristled Renfro.

"I wish I could agree with you."

Renfro straightened. "You want my resig - "

"Why don't the pair of you cool it before you both say something you'll regret," interrupted Poole. Losing patience, she stepped between the antagonists to glare at Renfro, whom she judged to be most at fault. He swung away.

Gerard sank onto the broad arm of a sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb before he looked up. "Sorry, Cosmo," he muttered into the silence.

"It's OK," Renfro replied without turning.

Gerard gave a little nod, more to himself than his companions. "I know it isn't, but I need you with me on this one."

Given how rarely Gerard asked for help, the two deputies exchanged a worried glance before Renfro returned to the other man's side. While his sympathies were with Kimble, and he was convinced this case had never been a runner, all his loyalty was given to Gerard. Richard was tough, he'd survive. And if this would take away the bruised look from Sam's eyes he was prepared to put the cuffs on Richard himself, before going to find some thumbscrews.

"Who'll keep you grounded if I walk?" he muttered. The trace of doubt he saw on Gerard's face demolished the last of his pride. "Of course I'm with you," he said gruffly, patting the other man on the shoulder.

Gerard nodded again, but he relaxed to a degree before he looked at Poole in silent question.

"Sure," she said casually. "Richard might be feeling a little raw right now but it will take more than an interrogation from you to break him. Anyway, getting mad with you will stop him from brooding about the fact he can't go back to work yet."

"All part of the service," Gerard drawled. He fished in a jacket pocket. "Here, the list of his lovers over the last twenty-three months."

"Jeez, Sam, what did you do to him? All he would tell me was that - "Renfro glanced at the list and his voice trailed away. "Sam -" Eyes wide, he stared at the other man, understanding Gerard's mood better now.

"You handle it," Gerard told him, his voice clipped and cold again. "I'm too busy."

Poole got up to stare at the list over Renfro's shoulder. While her expression did not change, there was an increased softening in her manner towards Gerard. "We will," she said quietly. "Why don't you catch up on some sleep?"

"I plan to," he said as he got to his feet.

"Uh, Sam, do you want to be woken an hour before we have to leave?" asked Renfro, as he smoothed his hair down.

Gerard paused in the doorway. "Leave for what?"

"The kids back at the department are really hot to take you out for a celebration and - "

"Celebration! Don't they know - ?" It took Gerard a moment to collect himself. "Sure. Where and when?"

"Monro's for eight. It could be just what you need to unwind." Renfro tried to look encouraging.

"Sure," repeated Gerard.

"Did Noah come back with you?" Poole asked.

"No. He stayed in St. Louis to be with Jamie's mother. He can keep the press away and - " Gerard made a helpless gesture. "It's not department business but she's - she was a single parent and - Noah will stay for as long as it takes."

"How will you swing that through the budget?" asked Renfro.

"He's on vacation."

"I thought he'd used up his entitlement," frowned Poole.

"What is it with you two?" demanded Gerard, his temper slipping again. "He's using some of my stockpile. Any objections? I'm going to bed. Wake me at seven. Poole, you might want to take Richard a drink. He looked like he could use some TLC when I left him."

"OK, Sam," she said peaceably, of the view Richard was not the only one.

When Poole entered the office Kimble was still slumped on the chair he had been using earlier, staring into the middle distance; he looked stunned.

"Sam thought you might be able to use this," she said matter-of-factly. She handed him a generous measure of brandy.

"Yet again, Deputy Gerard triumphs where other men fail," intoned Kimble in a bitter voice.

The warmth of the brandy was like a kiss as it slid down. Having gulped his first mouthful, Kimble sipped the rest. Catching Poole's eye, he held out his hand, which was trembling slightly.

"See that? Last time I was shaking this much I'd just recovered consciousness after falling down an elevator shaft. What's that guy on? I mean, I thrive on pressure."

Poole sat opposite him. "There are all kinds of pressure."

"You can say that again. There was this one time - I could feel Sam literally willing the information out of me. Information I didn't even know I knew." Kimble couldn't credit that Gerard had reduced him to this state with nothing more than the force of his personality.

Poole patted him on the shoulder and resisted the urge to brush back the glossy light brown hair which had spilled onto his forehead. "Sam was just doing his job."

"I suppose there's no law against job satisfaction." Kimble finished the last of his brandy and peered wistfully into the glass as if hoping more would appear.

Poole began to wonder exactly what had gone on in here. From the moment Sam had got home she had recognized the signs of Gerard at his most driven. The Judd case had hit a nerve, although Sam was denying it with everything within him. But what he could have said to leave Richard with this steely rage was a mystery. Richard was as tough, both mentally and physically, as they came. His chosen work necessitated difficult decisions and an assumption of responsibility on which he thrived. He had survived with his courage intact events which would have broken a lesser man. Yet after five and a quarter hours with Sam he looked as if he had been run over - several times - by something very heavy. More worryingly, Richard angry would be a far harder proposition to guard than Richard cooperative; it troubled her that Sam should have forgotten that elementary point.

Perhaps he was letting his hormones cloud his judgment, she mused.

"You'll feel better when you've eaten something," she told Kimble, horrified to hear the echo of her mother's voice.

He shook his head without looking up.

"I'll cook," she added persuasively, her heartstrings twanging because he looked so lost and unhappy. She realized he was on the road to recovery when he gave her a look of exaggerated disbelief.

"You heard me," she confirmed. "This is a special case, never-to-be-repeated offer, clear?"

"Clear," he said meekly, before he gave a lop-sided grin of immense charm. "A sort of pity cook?"

"You're better," she said, laughing.

"That's no excuse for you to welch on the deal," he told her, linking his arm with hers. But he tensed as they went into the hall.

"Cosmo's working in the living-room and Sam's gone to bed," Poole told him, as if he had spoken aloud.

"I'm sorry I kept him up for so long." Kimble's mouth hardened.

"What would you like to eat?" she asked, ignoring what he had said. "Eggs?"

"Fine." Helping himself from a jar of olives, he held it up to Poole, who shook her head.

"Sam only gets them in for Henry."

"What a prince."

Poole checked through cupboards for the pepper mill and then discovered it was sitting in front of her. "If Sam gave you a hard time it might help to know that he hasn't slept for two days. I don't suppose he can remember the last time he had six hours uninterrupted sleep."

Kimble spat an olive pit into his palm. "If you're aiming for the sympathy vote, save your breath. Any intern would pay good money to work those hours."

"Most interns are twenty years younger than Sam."

"Most interns prefer to save lives instead of des - " Pretense falling away, Kimble swung around, desperation on his face. "Don't you understand? I wanted to kill him. I sat there picking my spot. I'm a surgeon, I know them all. He made me so - " Falling silent, he slumped onto a chair at the table and began to fidget with the silverware.

Sensing that the other man wasn't done yet, Poole took her time in her cooking preparations. It was best if Richard let off steam to her rather than Cosmo, who thought only he had the right to criticize Sam.

"I can't believe Gerard's allowed to get away with treating people like this," Kimble burst out angrily.

Poole shot him a wary glance. "Sam doesn't ‘get away' with anything. Ever."

"Huh. Your precious Sam is nothing but a damn control freak. And if you can't see it - What is it, do you have to be brain-washed before you can work for Sam Gerard?"

Poole swallowed the tart retort hovering on her lips. "Some might say so," she conceded in a tight voice Kimble was too preoccupied to notice. "In the best possible way."

"There's no good way to be a control freak," he said flatly.

"You should know. No, hear me out, Richard," she insisted, when he looked up, anger stark on his face. "In your world I bet you'd have a lot in common with the way Sam runs the department."

Kimble shot her a furious look. "Then you know nothing about - " Stopping, he took a steadying breath. His head bowed, he ran his fingers through his hair over and over again before he slowly raised his head, having regained a measure of control.

"Sorry," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "I shouldn't be dumping on you. Particularly not about your boss. Those eggs look terrific," he added, injecting a false enthusiasm into his voice.

A short time later, his meal finished, he nodded his thanks and left the kitchen. After some aimless wandering around the house he finally settled in the living-room and stared blindly at the medical journal he was pretending to read, while he mentally relived his ordeal by interrogation.

Losing all track of time, he was roused from his abstraction by the sound of laughter coming from the hallway. Poole and Renfro, he identified as Biggs flicked on the light and entered the room.

"Sorry, Richard, I didn't know you were sitting in the dark."

"There's no reason why you should. What's going on?" Kimble added, unaware of how wistful he sounded. He could have done with a good party tonight.

"Sam's taking the department out for the evening."

"To celebrate his notable triumph? Does he always celebrate the close of a big case?"

"That depends," said Biggs with caution, only now sensing dangerous waters ahead.

"Did capturing me rate a celebration?" While Kimble's tone was casual, Biggs's expression closed.

"You've go