Nathan’s Run

by John Gilstrap

  At length, Mr. Slater spoke. “We must do what must be done. But I want some dignity for Lyle. He’s served well:’

  “Yes, sir?’ Sammy agreed.

  “He’ll call this morning. I want to speak with him when he does.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sammy read his boss’s body language and rose to leave, glancing at the old man one last time to check his mood. How ancient Slater looked, every year and every decision having carved a crease into his yellow-gray flesh. His boss would be gone soon, and there’d be no one to take his place. The punks would inherit the streets. That would be a tragic day, Sammy thought.

  Chapter 31

  Billy Alexander was the only kid in Mrs. Lippincott’s fourth-grade class who hated summer vacation. For all he knew, he was the only kid in the world who preferred school to time off. He talked about his feelings one time to an older kid who lived down the hall, a white dude, but the reaction he got convinced him that it was best to keep such thoughts to himself.

  At school, there was always something good to eat, and there were friends to play with and air conditioning to dry up the sweat. Billy’s apartment, on the other hand, was a sweatbox, stuck on the side of the building where breezes rarely stirred. When his mom was home—she worked all the time—she’d pick up some groceries and maybe even cook a real dinner. Most of the time, though, he’d be stuck picking through whatever was left in the cupboards. This morning, he’d boiled himself some macaroni for breakfast. It would have tasted better with some tomato sauce or some butter, but hey, you had to make do with what you had.

  The very worst part, though, was the loneliness. At ten, Billy was the youngest kid in his building by about six years, and the only one who wasn’t a doper or a crackhead. The people who lived in his neighborhood scared the hell out of him. Fights and shootings were the routine. Billy couldn’t remember a weekend when there weren’t cop cars or ambulances out front.

  In the two years that they’d been living in the Vista Plains Apartments, he’d been nearly shot twice, beaten up five times, robbed of every dime he’d ever put into his pocket, and was even tossed down the fire escape stairs once. That one required a trip to the hospital in an ambulance, and got him six stitches in his forehead. Eight months later, his mom had yet to notice the scar.

  Billy knew that his life sucked, and he figured that sooner or later he was going to become a loser just like all the others, but for the time being, he liked to pretend that maybe it would be different for him. If he actually learned all that crap they were teaching him in school, and if he just stayed away from the other kids from his neighborhood, maybe, just maybe, he could be different. Black folks had done it before. Colin Powell had done it, and Colin Powell was his hero.

  So summertime was something he had to endure. He had his books and he had his television, and it wasn’t like he was starving to death or anything. Most important, he had his best friend Barney, a golden retriever-and-god-knows-what-else mix that Billy had found in an alley, trying to make a meal out of a tipped-over trash can. For both boy and dog, it had been love at first sight, and they’d been inseparable for nearly three months now. Billy noticed with some interest that even people who had no respect for a kid showed respect to a kid with a big dog.

  At the moment, Billy was doing the one chore that he hated above all others: taking the trash downstairs. The basement of his apartment building was a dark, damp, stinky place where people who had no homes would go to camp out, or shoot up, or sometimes die. He’d never seen anything particularly scary down there himself, but he’d heard stories.

  As always, he let Barney go down first, to flush out whatever bad guys might be lurking. Dutifully, the beast trotted on down, then paused at the bottom, staring back up at his master. The stupid, expectant look on the dog’s face made Billy laugh.

  “You haven’t figured out that you’re the bait, have you boy?” Billy said as he negotiated the stairs. Barney’s wagging tail was unbalancing the dog’s back end, causing him to do a silly little dance with his hind legs just to keep from falling over.

  Billy wasted no time doing his duty. Lifting the lid of the galvanized trash can with his left hand, he slung the three plastic trash bags—they’d been grocery bags in their past lives—into the opening.

  He’d just turned to go back up the stairs when he heard it. Some boxes in the corner moved. Barney heard it, too. The dog braced his legs and lowered his head, the fur along his spine rising like porcupine quills. The ferocious noise that issued from the dog’s throat was unlike anything Billy had ever heard.

  “W-who’s there?” Billy called out to the shadows near the furnace. Barney seemed confused, not knowing whether to attack or to stay back and defend his master.

  “W-whoever you are, you better come out before my dog kills you.” Despite the fear in his belly, Billy’s voice carried the firm conviction of one who was stating the obvious.

  First one, and then two- and then three-at-a-time, boxes and trash bags fell away from the stack in the corner and tumbled to the floor. Like peeling away a banana, the falling boxes revealed a terrified white boy, who slowly rose to his feet, his hands outstretched in front of him to ward off Barney’s threatening moves.

  Billy had watched the news that morning. It took him five seconds to put it all together.

  “You’re Nathan, aren’t you?” Billy said.

  Nathan nodded and swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the angry beast. “I-I w-won’t hurt anybody,” Nathan declared.

  “What are you doing—”

  The dog…”

  “You killed those guys.”

  Nathan shook his head frantically, never moving his eyes from the snarling mutt. “No. No, I didn’t, honest. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not the one.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Nathan swallowed again and jumped when Barney moved his head. “Cops. Th-they’re looking for me.”

  Billy studied the other boy for a long moment. “So I hear,” he said.

  “Could you… The dog…”

  Billy hesitated for a few seconds, then stooped down to rub Barney’s ears. “Be cool, Barney. Let’s hear what the dude has to say for himself?’

  “How come you know who I am?” asked Nathan.

  Billy snorted out a chuckle. “You’re in deep shit, man. Everybody knows who you are. You were on Nightline last night.”

  Nathan’s eyebrows shot up as he felt a rush of pride. You had to be somebody to get on Nightline. Hell, the president had been on Nightline! Then again, so had Charles Manson.

  “What’d they say about me?”

  Billy shrugged. “Half the world thinks you’re a murderer and the other half thinks you’re some kind of hero.”

  “I’m no hero,” Nathan said, shaking his head. “But I’m no murderer either.”

  For the first time, Billy made long eye contact with Nathan. Billy had adult’s eyes, Nathan saw. They were the eyes of someone who’d seen his own share of adversity; hard and warm at the same time.

  “Until this morning I might have agreed with you, bro. But those dead cops they found last night didn’t keel over from heart attacks. How do you explain that?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Nathan declared, missing Billy’s use of the plural. “A cop killed that cop. Then he tried to kill me.” It took a few minutes to tell the story. Billy seemed to accept it as fact.

  “So, who killed the second cop?” Billy asked at the end. Nathan scowled. “What second cop?”

  Billy explained.

  Nathan gasped and sank slowly to the floor. He ran a hand through his greasy hair. “Oh, shit, they think I did all that?”

  Billy nodded. “Yep. And they’re talking serious shit about not letting you get away with it.” Then he laughed. “Like they were just gonna let you get away with killing the guy in Virginia. You did kill that one, right?”

  “Yeah… well, not until he tried to kill me.”

  Billy’
s attitude turned suddenly skeptical. “So how come everybody’s trying to kill you?”

  Nathan tossed his hands in the air. “Damned if I know. It’s worse than that. Not everybody is trying to kill me, only cops.” “Who’d you piss off?”

  “I don’t know! But I sure did a good job of it.”

  Another long silence followed. “What are you gonna do next?” Billy finally asked.

  Nathan studied the other boy before answering. “I don’t know. What are you gonna do?”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna call the heat, if that’s what you mean. Too many of them suckers around here as it is.”

  Nathan considered his next question for a long time before asking it. “Can I hide in your place for the day?”

  Billy’s answer came easily, as though he’d been anticipating the request. “Sure, why not?” he said. “Don’t got much to eat, but we got a TV and I got some games and stuff?”

  Nathan winced. “Watching TV’s gotten pretty depressing for me recently?”

  Billy laughed again. “I bet.”

  “What time is it?” asked Nathan.

  Billy shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. It was about eight-fifteen when I came downstairs. Why? You got an appointment?”

  Nathan smiled and shook his head. “No, but come ten o’clock I got a phone call to make.”

  Chapter 32

  By the time Warren arrived at the Pitcairn County Sheriff’s Office, the place was a media circus, with satellite trucks parked nose-to-tail down the last quarter-mile of Main Street. Approaching the front entrance, he saw two network reporters whom he recognized from the evening news broadcasts. Jesus, he thought. They’re bringing their New York staffs into this thing.

  His gold badge granted him unimpeded access into the building, through the crowds of reporters and citizens. Just as he opened the glass doors to enter, one of the reporters recognized him and called his name. Warren didn’t even break stride.

  The first face he saw belonged to Petrelli, who was already holding court in the hallway, issuing instructions to people over whom he had no authority, but who nevertheless seemed to be listening. Warren could tell from the body language alone that he was in the middle of one of his “let’s-go-out-and-get-’em” Knute Rockne pep talks.

  With too little sleep to his credit and way too much caffeine in his system, Warren knew he was ill-prepared to encounter Petrelli just then, and he tried to become invisible as he passed the crowd. It didn’t work.

  “Lieutenant Michaels!” Petrelli called in his most officious tone. “Can you come here a minute, please?”

  Warren stopped, sighed, and then worked his way through the knot of police officers to stand next to Petrelli.

  “This is Detective Lieutenant Warren Michaels,” Petrelli announced to the group. “Notwithstanding a bit of trouble getting a handle on this particular case, the lieutenant is one of Braddock County’s finest police officers. I’ve asked him to travel here to New York to assist in our efforts to catch Nathan Bailey.”

  Warren shot a withering look at Petrelli. Nobody had asked Warren to do anything. He was in Pitcairn County of his own volition, and he was none too certain how the chief was going to respond when he heard.

  “Sorry about fumbling the ball, there, J.,” Michaels mumbled, just loud enough for Petrelli to hear. “We can’t all be as successful as you’ve been these last few days?’ This was Petrelli at his finest: center stage, big case, hungry audience, and manufacturing facts at will.

  A pro at selective hearing, Petrelli ignored the comment. “We all know what’s at stake here,” he concluded. “Now let’s work together to stop this animal before he can hurt anyone else.”

  “Have we got the green light to take him out if we have to?” asked one of the deputies. He looked maybe twenty years old. “I mean, he’s just a kid. I don’t want to have to spend the rest of my career in a courtroom if it comes down to him and me and I win.”

  The rumbling murmur through the crowd indicated that it was a shared sentiment.

  Petrelli was ready. “I’ve said all along that I think we should treat this monster as an adult. Clearly, he’s capable of unspeakable violence. But that’s really not my call to make, Deputy. Sheriff Murphy’s got to make that decision.”

  All eyes turned toward a bald, heavyset man standing on the other side of Petrelli from Michaels. Till now, the man had looked distracted, as though his mind were elsewhere, like a platoon leader who’d just lost his troops in combat. With attention now focused on him, Murphy set his jaw and faced his men.

  “Two wonderful families lost fine husbands and fathers this morning,” he said softly. Though barely audible, his voice was the very essence of strength. The hallway grew silent as he spoke. “Those men were friends of mine, colleagues of yours. A murderer took these peace officers from us in cold blood, and I have no intention of seeing him take any more. To answer your question, Deputy, yes, you have the green light. If you feel threatened, you take him out.”

  It was what they wanted to hear. “Fucker’s history,” Deputy Steadman said at the front of the crowd.

  “There you go, men,” Petrelli concluded, careful to rob Murphy of the last word. “You have your orders. Go out and bring the bastard in.”

  Warren was horrified. As the group of police officers broke up and headed out to fulfill their orders, he turned to face Murphy and Petrelli, his mouth agape. “Jesus Christ, Petrelli, you just issued a death warrant on that kid.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Warren, don’t be such a woman.” He turned his back on Michaels.

  Warren leveraged a shoulder to spin him back around. “What the fuck gives you the right to form a lynch mob? My God, Petrelli, you’re an officer of the court! You can’t authorize an execution!”

  Petrelli’s eyes burned with self-righteous anger. “Get your hands off of me, Lieutenant, or I’ll have you arrested for assault. Save your theatrics for that incompetent staff of yours. All we’re trying to do is finish the job that you couldn’t. If the kid gets killed, it’s because he deserves it. When his arrest comes down, he’ll just have to be very careful, that’s all:’

  Warren knew that Petrelli was an asshole; there was no use trying to talk to him. He turned his attention to Murphy. “Sheriff?” he said. “You’ve got to tone down the rhetoric, sir. Those men think you just authorized them to kill a twelve-year-old boy.”

  Warren wasn’t sure what to make of the look he got from Murphy. It wasn’t angry; it wasn’t sad. Tired. That was it, he looked tired.

  “Look, Lieutenant,” he said patiently. “My boys know how to do their jobs. If the kid can be taken alive, that’s how it will go down. If he poses a threat, he’s toast. It’s that simple.”

  “It’s not that simple!”

  “It’s exactly that simple!” There was the anger. Suddenly Murphy seethed with it. “Don’t you tell me how to run my department, Michaels. That animal killed two of my deputies. Here are the pictures.” He thrust a fistful of Maroids at Warren. “The way I look at it, if you hadn’t fucked up on your end, I wouldn’t have had to console two widows this morning. This is my case now, and I’ll run it my way—which is to capture the bad guy and eliminate the threat to the community. That’s what I’m elected to do. If that means that a young killer doesn’t get a chance to grow up to be an old killer, then I can live with that.”

  A long moment passed with Michaels and Murphy staring angrily at each other. Then the anger disappeared from Murphy’s countenance and he just looked tired again. Without another word, the sheriff turned and walked toward his office. Petrelli followed.

  Goddamn politicians, thought Warren.

  The very last thing in the world that Pointer wanted to do was call Mr. Slater. Nonetheless, the call had to be made. Pointer was a professional, and one of the duties of a professional was to own up to his mistakes. Sammy Bell answered the phone and passed him right through to Mr. Slater. Said he’d been expecting the call.

  “Is it true
what they say on the news, Lyle?” the old man asked, his raspy voice giving testimony to fifty years of unfiltered Chesterfields. “Is it true that you let this Bailey boy get away again?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Slater,” Pointer explained, surprised by the shakiness of his own voice, “but it’s like this…”

  “Be quiet, Lyle,” commanded Mr. Slater. “I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. Do you comprehend how much embarrassment you’ve brought down on us with your incompetent screwups? Do you know what the others will say about us? Even the niggers will laugh at us. Punk kids, Lyle, and they’ll be laughing at us.”

  “It’s not like you think, Mr. Slater,” Pointer offered.

  “Shut up,” the old man commanded a second time. “You don’t know what I think, Lyle, and I don’t care what you think. I care about performance, Lyle, and you’ve let me down terribly. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Leave the boy alone. It appears that the police are intent on keeping him from our grasp. I want you to come home. We have some things we need to discuss.”

  Pointer felt himself hyperventilating, but he could not control his breathing. “What about that asshole Mark Bailey? Don’t you want me to…”

  “We’ll take care of him.”

  “Please, Mr. Slater, at least let me…

  “I said we’ll take care of him, Lyle. I want you to come home. I want to see you in my office this afternoon at five.”

  Pointer closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. For a moment, he thought he might cry.

  “Do you understand me, Lyle?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pointer’s tone was flat, as though he were dead already. “Lyle?”

  “Yes, Mr. Slater?”

  “Make it easy on yourself, son,” the old man instructed, an unexpected touch of kindness in his voice. “Don’t make us come after you.”

  Unable to make his voice work, Pointer placed the phone gently on the cradle. He cocked his head oddly as he stared at his hands. He had never seen them shake before.

  Warren set up camp in an empty office, where he leafed through the Polaroids for the sixth time. Not knowing the officers involved personally, the pictures were no more or less shocking than dozens of others he’d seen, but the sheer violence of the act was baffling. The marksmanship was amazing. Three shots were fired, each one a kill shot. Where does a kid learn to shoot like that? He jotted the thought down on a yellow legal pad. One shot like this might be luck. To score three meant skill.