It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. I am no one, Gérard. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present.
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