A fic about Gary's night on the streets between "Fatal Edition 1" and "Fatal Edition 2." It may have a sort of recap of the episode, it was originally meant for creative writing class where most of them are not enlightnened to the power of Gary Hobson's spirit. Read and enjoy.

Spoilers: "Fatal Edition 1."

Rating: G

Disclaimers: I'm not making any cash on this, I don't own Gary or any characters, [they belong to CBS and
Sony TriStar] and I certainly don't know what you did last summer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One More Night
by Ally McKnight

So please hand me the bottle,
I think I'm lonely now,
And please give me direction
I think the hurt set in,
And I don't feel nothing.
   -Matchbox 20

 ***************

   The biting wind swept across the lake, like a thousand needles, pricking the neck of the man. The man who was shivering, lips blue and quivering, back up against a park bench. The man, Gary Hobson, Boy Scout to the world, but according to the Chicago PD, he no longer held that title.

 "How did I get myself into this?" He asked himself, the wind whipping at his back. It felt like a harsh whip against his shoulders.

  "Oh, yeah," he thought bitterly. "Being Superman without the cape and blue tights." How would Superman get out of this one?

  Gary tighteneed the flimsy coat around his shivering form, and pulled his cap low over his eyes. The haunted muddy green eyes that told stories of death and deception. Nobody could ever guess what Gary was at the moment. You'd never think of it looking at the handsome man, with thick, dark, brown hair, and a face as sweet and inviting as apple pie on a Sunday, with
whipped cream on top. Nobody would guess.

  A fugitive, that's what he was. Wrongly accused of murder. The incessant, harsh winds whistled by, unrelenting. Gary could barely feel his fingers. He rubbed his hands together, trying in a failed attempt to spark warmth into his palms. It was freezing,
colder than the times he went camping with his father by a river in November. Maybe it was the fact that his dad was wasn't there to talk to, his fatherly warmth was not present.

  The fact was, he had no shoulder to cry on, and nobody to consult with, nobody to trust but himself. Chuck was still in Hollywood, his parents, Lois and Bernie were on a cruise, and Marissa had been put through enough already, not to mention that she was under constant police supervision. He barely felt the bittersweet tears roll down his unshaven face.

  After a moment, he stood up. He prowled cautiously, throught the dark alleyways. The park was too dangerous, too likely for an early morning jogger to catch an accused murderer cat napping.

  "How ironic," he thought to himself. "The guy who getd tomorrow's newspaper today, the hero who doesn't have to run into a phone booth and tie a cape around thier neck was accused of killing. None of the police knew his day job. All he did all day was save lives, and now he couldn't save himslef. That's the luck of Gary Hobson.

  Why hadn't the paper come in jail? He could have proved his innocence, and then what? No police department would let a civillian take on such responsibilities. He's tried to explain it to his lawyer, but without the paper, what was he supposed to
say? "A magical cat brings a magical newspaper every day, and I go out and save lives, not take them. And see, the paper had technical difficulties out in Newspaper Land and it said the wrong time of murder, and everyone thought it was me."

  Yeah, then wait patiently to be carted off to a padded cell and a nice, white, straightjacket. As he edged through the shadows, the events of the past few days came rushing back, like a bullet out of a gun.

  It had started off, as all days had with a 'Meow!' and a thump, and a way too perky radio DJ. As usual, Gary got up, and opened the door to find a marmalade striped cat, and tomorrow's newspaper. Another day of saving ungreatful tyrants from whatever would be printed in the newspaper. Anything imagineable, murders, car accidents, poodle caught on fire, whatever.

  Frank Scanlon. Picture, bald, arrogant, obnoxious. Digs down to find every skeleton you ever thought was buried in the closet, and expose your every secret, to humiliate and harass you. In a word, journalist. "Dog With a Bone" columns, exposing fraud and making enemies were a part of everyday life, like brushing your teeth and taking a shower. Believe me, he's no Mother Theresa, he has more enemies than Adolf Hitler, the entire Chicago Police Department for one. His attacker? Who else but a distraught dentist? Apprently, his faulty practice was exposed by Scanlon. Who else would do such a thing?

  So, Gary did what he had to do. Acted like an over obsessed fan, trying to stall Scanlon and make the headline change. The plan didn't exactly execute as planned, and Gary had to use the tackle his high school football coach knew him for. For all that work, and grass stains on his new jeans, all he got in return was suspicions of being a garden variety nut with a hero complex. He was confronted by Scanlon, who in gratitude, accused Gary of staging accidents so he could swoop in and be the hero. Gary had been in a rush, he had to save a parking lot attendant, Joe from being crushed by a car.

  When questioned by Scanlon where he was going he snapped, "None of your business," arousing Frank's suspicion. Frank was looking for a bone to pick and he tripped right over one.

  Gary not wanting to be harrassed anymore than he usually was by the cops and the occasional nosy reporter or photographer, said he's talk to him later. He scurried out, and saved Joe, who in return for the act of heriosm, scampered away, screaming bloody murder. Gary had glanced down at the paper, surprised at what he saw. 'FRANK SCANLON MURDERED.'

  Part of Gary didn't want to save him, wanted to let him die, so he could live in peace until the next nosy cop beat down his door. But, yeah right, Gary Hobson, abandon someone in need? I don't think so. The Boy Scout on his shoulder got the best of him, and he pulled on his gloves and left.

  Marissa had warned him. Poor, sweet, blind Marissa. To please her, he left a message on Scanlon's voice mail, whcih sounded more threatining than a Good Samaritan trying to help out. He tried to warn Detective Armstrong of the tragedy that would befall the city of Chicago. Nothing worked so he hailed a cab, and went to the train yard, the murder site.

  The paper said he was shot at ten o' clock, he made it there with plenty of time to spare. He was curious. The murder had to have something to do with Joe, the parking lot attendant. The headlines don't just change, Gary would have to do something. How ironic that he being two hours early, was really too late in the scheme of things.
 
  The loud gunshot almost toppled Gary over. The sound lingering in his ears, he made his way through the dark night, alert for any noise. He had been aware the gunman could still be there. Then, he came upon Scanlon's bullet riddled body. The gun lay above Scanlon's head, next to Gary.And that's where Gary was found. The police knew Scanlon was cooking up a story on Gary, and there's the obvious fact as he was kneeling over the body, which compelled Armstrong to have him arrested. Nobody would listen, and he was brought in for interrogation.

  The interrogation room. As silent and still as a funeral. One game of good cop-bad cop, cat and mouse. A single lightbulb hung above the table. Armstrong didn't believe him, even though Gary had saved his wife from drowning a few months before.

  It wasn't like Gary had any defense anyway. He remained silent. All he could say was "I didn't do it," an unanswered plea for justice. They couldn't look for Gary's fingerprints, he was wearing gloves. Gary cursed himself. Of all the lessons his mother
taught him, he had to remember the one that could, ironically, get him in more trouble than if Lois found him without gloves on.

  Nobody doubted it was him, nobody but Antonia Brigatti, the pretty, tought as nails cop, who had always taken quite a liking to Gary thought she's never say it. Although she tried to keep up a good front, her heart couldn't help but beat a little faster every time he walked by. She couldn't believe a guy like Gary would do something such as murder. He was the boy-next door, the kind of guy a girl would want to take home to her parents. The first lesson Toni had learned though, was not to jud ge a book by it's cover. And although the cover of that particular book was very handsome, the inside of him glowed too. He was the kind of guy who's worst offense would be a few library fines.

  Toni didn't believe it in her heart, but in her head, all fingers pointed to Hobson.

  Gary wasn't faring so well, himself. His lawyer was not very supportive, just defending him as a favor to Toni. Gary knew he bombed the lie detector test. It was those questions, the unexpected ones. The ones that it seemed Armstrong slipped in for more than just to find out if he killed Frank, more like to find out Gary's secret.

  "Do you have a secret?" Gary had flinched. What was he supposed to do? Alot of people had secrets, not many as complex as his. Why would Armstrong ask that? A secret is something most people have. Besides, according to them, it was him, game, set, match.

  "Are you afraid your secret will be revealed?" The words seemed to sting Gary, as he thought back to them.

  "Do you lie alot....?" How was he supposed to answer that. He did but not very well. He couldn't just say, "The cat made me do it."

 "Is there a side of yourself you hide from the world?" The Superman thing was not helping his case. Sure, it said he didn't kill Frank, but it also said he was hiding alot of himself, and that he was a deceiver, so he wasn't exactly in the clear after that
episode.

  He was permitted a visit with Marissa. She was crying, and Gary tried to assure her, but it was no use. Marissa did what she always did, tried to give him sage advice. Too bad for Gary. that the advice wasn't very reassuring with tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Gary was being transferred to the courthouse, when a brawl broke out, among Scanlon's attempted attacker and the officers. After congradulating Gary for killing him he started to attack. Gary was thrown on a bench and told not to move. He heard a meow, and there was Cat, and a newspaper, with the headlinem 'FUGITIVE ESCAPES OUT COURTHOUSE WINDOW.'

 Gary didn't hesitate. He crept past the brawling men, and hopped out the window, landing with a 'thud' on top of a newspaper truck, with no choice but to go along for the ride.

  Gary had to stick around Chicago, he couldn't just hide away. He had to find the real killer, find justice in the cruel system of supposed law and order. Gary had, had his last straw when, after they took Gary in, they stopped considering anybody else,
letting the actual murderer slip between their fingers.

  Gary had to prove his innocence. It wasn't like anybody could or would even try to help him. This wasn't something his puppy dog eyes, or charming smile could weasel his way out of. Sure, it worked when he was a kid and wanted an extra piece of pie, or a new Nintendo game. Sure, his mom and dad would give in then, but this was murder, and the cops weren't even close to Bernie and Lois. Jail wasn't exactly a bed of roses, and far from his bedroom in Hickory.

  Gary was however, very aware of the dangers of staying around, but he was willing to take the risk, it was either that, or spend the rest of his life in some remote island where nobody speaks English. Mexico sounded okay, but he wasn't big on spicy food. Mexico was then out of the question.

  Gary still had had his handcuffs to deal with. He stopped at a dingy laundromat, and called Marissa, using the name Chuck, while at the same time, saving her a buck or two. So, a half an hour later, if you had been walking down Peoria St, you might have done a double take down the alley. You might have thought you saw a blind woman working bolt cutters. If that's what
you thought you had seen, you'd have been right.

   Gary walked out of the alley with a jacket, free hands, and a pocket full of cash from the McGinty's cash register. He knew he couldn't contact Marissa anymore. The cops were all over her as soon as he jumped out that window. He had no clue where he was going, wandering aimlessly through the dark night.

  Somehow, he ended up at Toni's apartment. It was a stupid move, but what could he do? All he wanted was a bed to sleep in, and a warm blanket, but a fugitive asking an officer for hospitality is like  a mouse asking a cat if they can just be friends, no matter if the cat's heart melts when she sees the mouse. Brigatti didn't believe his far-fetched story, and he couldn't blame her, really. How did she know he wasn't going to kill her while she was sleeping. And of course, her entire carrer hanging in the balance. She pulled her gun on him, but Gary knew she wouldn't shoot. He snickered, and and walked out. Toni may have
been a cop, but even cops fall in love. And even though she'd never say it, she was head over heels for Gary Hobson.

  The last time he had been on the run from the cops, he had spent the night on the El. He couldn't do it now, it was as good as handcuffing himself.

  So, that's how he ended up, his body quivering as he sank down on the dew covered grass.   So, this was it. He was on a wild-goose chase for a former parking lot attendant Joe, who quit his job soon after Frank's murder, and nobody knew where he went. Another dead end. Never any lucky breaks for him. He came upon a crumbling, vacant factory. Inside, he found a dirt covered, but nevertheless, wool blanket buried in a dark corner of the room.

  Gary settled on a slab of cardboard with the tiny blanket wrapped around his muscular frame, all six foot one, one hundred eighty pounds of shivering mass. The handsome, unshaven man could finally feel the tears fall down his cheeks.

  "One more night," he said outloud. "Tomorrow, I'll find the killer," he continued with more confidence than he actually felt. He drifted off, his ears still awake and alert for any noises. He groaned, and yawned, exhausted. He was dirty and tired, and  he
yearned for a warm bed, a hot shower, and a bowl of Lois Hobson's delicous chicken noodle soup.

  "One more night," he said outloud. "One more night."

Email the author: Ally McKnight
 
 

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