Something underlined on page fourteen of the will caught his attention, and his mind shifted from scanning mode to reading mode. Halfway through the second paragraph, his backbone straightened and he sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion.
"I'll be damned," he said aloud.
"What have you got?" Harry asked, taking advantage of the opportunity to examine something other than the body.
"Our motive," Jed said sharply.
"Medical Examiner's office, this is Julie," a voice said in his ear. Jed told her to hold on for a minute.
Chapter 36
So let me get this straight," Sheriff Murphy summarized after listening to Warren's presentation. "You want me to go before the voters of this county and tell them that on the advice of a police detective from Virginia, I should ignore all the physical evidence gathered thus far-not the least of which is an admission of guilt from the kid himself-and shift our efforts to find a phantom hit man. Is that what you're telling me, Lieutenant Michaels?"
Warren scanned the faces of the sheriff and Petrelli, who sat perched like a parrot next to his fellow politician. A deep, abiding belief in the criminal justice system was the only thing that kept Warren from popping them both. This was a useless exercise, he realized. To these two, police work was about votes. Nothing more.
When Warren didn't answer, Petrelli filled the silence. "Warren, I'm worried about you," he said, shaking his head, his voice dripping with condescension. "We all know how hard the loss of your son was on you last year. I think maybe you've lost perspective on this case. Perhaps you should volunteer to step down from it. That way, I don't have to ask Chief Sherwood to remove you from it."
Petrelli's words hit him in the chest like a hammer. Bang! Warren had known going into this meeting that his arguments were not yet well formed, and that they directly contradicted much of the physical evidence. He knew that he would have to change their entire approach to the facts, and he had, in fact, done the sales job of his life.
To anyone else, the arguments would have been persuasive, but he had underestimated the depth of political ambition jammed into this tiny little office. By refusing to be persuaded, they had made Warren look like a fool. It had been an opportunity for which Petrelli had been waiting for years, and there it was. Find the most vulnerable weakness in your opponent, and concentrate all your forces on that spot. It was every bit as reliable a rule in politics as it was on the battleground.
Worst of all, Petrelli was right. He had no business remaining a part of this case. Warren had known it ever since he'd seen the still picture from the JDC video. His heart was every bit as involved in this case as his mind, but he believed nonetheless that he could keep them separate; he believed he could be professional and objective when he had to be.
But objectivity was not the issue here. Fact was, he was right! And these assholes knew it! For Petrelli, though, the opportunity to make his historical adversary squirm was a far more important prize than justice. By discrediting Warren-the flatfoot in charge of the investigation-Petrelli would be able to recover a portion of the political damage done by Nathan's celebrity.
"So, what do you say, Warren?" Petrelli pressed. "Why don't you step down?"
Warren smiled politely. "Why don't you kiss my ass, J.?" He knew when he'd lost. He also knew that Chief Sherwood was the only human being on earth who hated Petrelli more than Warren did. Petrelli's threats were as hollow as his spine.
"That'll be enough!" Sheriff Murphy intervened. "Lieutenant Michaels, I think this meeting is over."
Warren turned away from Petrelli and faced Murphy. "Look, Sheriff, all I ask is for you to tell your men to take it easy. They're looking for a murderer named Nathan, not a victim named Nathan. That makes a huge difference in how they take him down. You authorized a green shooter's light, for Chrissake!"
"Do I need to arrange an escort for you to leave, Lieutenant?" Murphy offered. The phone rang. "I can arrange that, if you want."
Warren stood still for a moment longer. There was nothing left for him to do. As he turned to leave, he heard Murphy answer his phone and pass it to Petrelli.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Petrelli exploded. "I did no such thing!"
Warren stopped short of the door to eavesdrop. Seeing Petrelli blow his cool always lightened his day. Now the prosecutor-cumsenator seemed as confused as he did angry.
"Look, Stephanie," he said after a long spate of listening, "I'm telling you I didn't call. Do you think I have a death wish? Judge Verone would have my butt in jail before nightfall."
The pieces fell together for Warren. "Stephanie" would be Stephanie Buckman, who had represented Petrelli's ridiculous petition before Judge Verone the day before. When it all focused in his mind, Warren's heart started racing. Somebody was trying to trace Nathan's call.
As much as he wanted to suspect Petrelli of foul play, he knew that the slimebag would let his mother be lynched before he'd violate a court order. After all, the lynching would earn him tons of voter sympathy; the bad press from violating the court order would kill him. He realized in an instant that Nathan's would-be killer was making his next move.
Warren moved quickly back across the office and snatched the telephone away from Petrelli, pushing him aside with a forearm. J. Daniel looked shocked at the lieutenant's strength.
"Stephanie, this is Warren Michaels," he said hurriedly. "I understand that somebody was trying to trace Nathan Bailey's telephone call?"
Stephanie's voice showed surprise at the sudden change in characters. "Well, y-yes," she stammered.
"Did he get it?"
"Y-yes. But why . . . "
"How long ago?" Warren interrupted. His voice was abrupt and insistent.
"Look, Lieutenant . . . "
"Goddammit, how long ago, Stephanie?" Warren was shouting now.
"I-I don't know for sure. Twenty minutes, maybe." Stephanie seemed hesitant to speak to him about the details.
Warren checked his watch without seeing the time. "Shit. What's the number?" he asked.
"Lieutenant, what happened to Mr. Petrelli?" she stalled.
"No one knows for sure," Warren said without missing a beat.
"We think he was born an asshole." He looked directly at Petrelli as he spoke, lest there be any doubt. "Look, Stephanie, I need that number. The guy who was asking for it is our killer. Please. Tell me what it is."
Petrelli made a move to wrestle the phone back, but retreated immediately from Warren's threatening glare.
"You know if you use this, any evidence will be tainted," Stephanie warned, a broad smile in her voice from Warren's comments about her boss.
"I don't care:' Warren promised. "I just need that number."
With more than a little hesitation, she gave him the number. As soon as the seventh digit passed Stephanie's lips, Warren dropped the phone onto its cradle.
Without a word, Warren left Murphy's office, dialing his cellular as he walked.
Denise marveled at the margin by which the afternoon callers were favoring Nathan's side. Having been so terribly unnerved at first, Nathan seemed to have calmed down a lot, though he was a mere shadow of the jovial personality she'd had on the air yesterday. For the most part, he was sparing of the details surrounding his capture and escape. All she really knew for sure after nearly two hours on the phone with him was that he was convinced that he was the target of a police conspiracy to kill him, and that he had had nothing to do with those police officers' deaths the night before.
When Denise pointed out that law enforcement people had an uncanny way of turning up dead in Nathan's presence, he had no rehearsed response. He only reiterated that he was victim just like all the others-or a potential victim, anyway. And if cops were trying to kill you, what better place to do it than at a prison?
Much as she hated to admit it, today's phone call with Nathan was getting repetitive and boring. Pretty soon she was going to have to cut him off and move on to other things. The thought tugged
at her heart, though. It seemed as if he needed to talk on the radio today.
Carter from Tuscaloosa was on the phone asking Nathan about life with his Uncle Mark when a stranger joined them on the line. "Excuse me," the voice said, "this is the telephone operator, with an emergency break-in call from Lieutenant Michaels from the police department. Go ahead, sir."
There was a click, and then Warren's voice joined the conversation. "Nathan, this is Lieutenant Michaels from the Braddock County Police Department," he said officiously.
"Wait a minute, Lieutenant," Denise protested. "How did you break in? In case you hadn't heard, we won our case yesterday . . . "
"Yes, ma'am, you did," Warren confirmed. "I'll be happy to explain all the details to you later, but right now Nathan is in grave danger. Son, you need to run away from where you are. Now. The man who tried to kill you last night is on his way to do it again."
Nathan turned pale, causing Billy to move closer to the receiver where he could hear. Barney followed. It didn't even occur to him to turn on the radio.
The police had traced his call! They couldn't do that! He'd heard this morning on the news that a judge had told them they couldn't do that. Now a cop was telling him to run away, but it was cops who had tried to kill him in the first place.
"H-how do I know you're not trying to trick me?" Nathan asked, his voice taking on a dazed quality.
"You don't," Warren answered simply. "You'll just have to trust me.
Denise blurted, "Trust! You break into a private conversation-against court orders, I hasten to add-and you talk about trust? It seems to me . . . "
Warren cut her off. "Shut up, Bitch!" Boy, that didn't sound right. "Nathan has no choice but to trust me, because if he doesn't, he'll get killed, and there's nothing I can do about it. Believe it or not, son, I'm one of the good guys. Now, run!"
"Where to?" the boy asked, desperation building in the pit of his stomach.
Oh, shit! thought Warren. He hadn't planned that far ahead. There was only one landmark he could think of, and it was out in the middle of everything: the obelisk in the town square.
"Can you take us off the air for just a minute, Bitch?" Warren asked, his tone pleading and polite.
Denise heard the sincerity in the police officer's voice, the fear.
She didn't have to do anything he asked, but she decided that she could ill afford not to.
"All right," she agreed, "but I'll be able to listen in."
"Must you?" Warren asked.
"Unless you want an earful of dial tone," Denise replied.
"Suppose you were to take your earphones off?"
Denise sighed loudly into the microphone. "Okay," she conceded. "You've got thirty seconds of dead air."
Enrique looked at her as if she'd gone completely over the edge, but followed suit anyway, removing his own earphones. In all his years in radio, this would be his first half-minute without his ears covered. They felt strangely cold.
"Go ahead, guys," Denise instructed. "Your clock is running. Let's go to commercials, Rick."
As Nathan listened, he felt his world becoming very small, just himself and this cop named Michaels. He started to object twice, but Michaels wouldn't let him. During the first ten seconds of the monologue, Nathan learned that there was a plot to kill him, and that it didn't involve the police. In the next ten, he heard that most of the police who were on the street thought that Nathan had killed the cops in the jail last night, and that they were cleared to shoot him if he resisted arrest. Finally, he learned that this Lieutenant Michaels was the only person in the universe that he truly could trust, and that the most important thing that Nathan could do was let Michaels bring him in.
"The running's over, Nathan," Michaels concluded. "You have to trust somebody now, and I'm all you've got. Do you know where the Lewis and Clark Memorial is in the square?"
"You mean the tall pointy tower?" Nathan said. "Yeah."
"Make your way over there and we'll find each other. I'm wearing a brown suit with a blue shirt and a striped tie. You'll see me. I look like a cop."
In spite of the danger, Nathan smiled. "I guess you know what I look like," he offered.
"The whole world knows what you look like, pal. Now, move! You've got no time left."
Nathan hung up the phone and looked at Billy.
"Well, do you trust him?" Billy asked.
Nathan thought for a moment before answering. "Yes." The answer surprised both of them.
The commercials had run a full five minutes, giving them an extra 270 seconds of privacy, not because Denise had been conned into it by the cop, but because she really feared for Nathan's safety. When the spots were done, she and Enrique reentered the world of electronic noise, only to hear the screeching tone of a telephone that had been left off the hook.
"Well, folks," she announced to her audience. "It seems we're all alone here . . "
Billy's directions to the obelisk were brief and complete, matching Nathan's dimming memories of his flight the night before. The young fugitive was impressed by the distance he'd actually run: over two miles, according to Billy.
Nathan hurriedly tied his shoes and went to the front door, where Billy was waiting with Barney to say goodbye.
Nathan smiled sadly and nodded. "Thanks, Billy," he said. "You didn't have to help me. I appreciate it."
Billy looked down at the floor. "Sure I did," he joked halfheartedly. "You're a murderer. You might have killed me." He reached into his pants pocket and handed the older boy a three-inch-tall X-Men figure, Cyclops. "Here," he said. "He brings me good luck."
Nathan felt moved. He took the toy gratefully and stuffed it into the front pocket of his ragged denim shorts. "Thanks," he said. At once, they both became aware of the sounds of sirens growing in the distance. "I gotta go," Nathan said, and he disappeared out the apartment door.
Nathan's plan was to use the back stairs; to get out the way he'd gotten in, through the basement. Somehow that made more sense to him than going out the front door. When he'd taken only three steps down the hall, he heard the pounding of running feet behind him.
"Hey, Nathan!" a voice called.
Nathan's body reacted to the sound of the voice even before his brain could process its source. He sprawled face-first onto the stained carpet of the hallway, like a baseball player sliding into third, just as he heard the familiar phut, and a tiny geyser of plaster fountained from the wall. He shoulder-rolled to his left as a second bullet slammed into the spot he'd just occupied on the carpet.
Nathan scrambled on all fours to a sharp turn in the hallway to his right and dove the last four feet for cover behind the wall. Plaster dust stung his eyes as a shot aimed for his head blasted through the outside corner of the wall instead. Just before the last shot was fired, Nathan caught a glimpse of his attacker through his peripheral vision. He was dressed in a cop's uniform.
Nathan never stopped. He shoulder-rolled again to his feet and charged down the second hallway, ignoring the bitter profanity that exploded from the cop. Only fifty feet more, and he'd be at the stairwell door, over which only a bare lightbulb remained in the sign that had once read EXIT. Twenty feet now, and the pounding of his own footsteps was joined by the heavier stride of the cop, beating a bass counterpoint to the quick staccato of his borrowed sneakers. He knew better than to look behind him.
When he heard Pointer's footsteps stop abruptly, Nathan knew he was in trouble. Without a conscious thought, he zigzagged the last ten feet to the exit. He heard the suppressed gunshot at the same instant as an invisible fist slammed into the right side of his rib cage and a neat round hole appeared in the metal door three inches in front of him. The impact of the blow forced an oof sound from his lungs, and he staggered as he propelled himself through the fire door.
Nathan didn't run down the stairs; he flew down them, using the steel railings to vault from one landing to the next, barely touching a single concrete step on the way.
When he reached the bottom
, he risked a quick look back up the stairwell. Pointer was two levels behind, but gaining quickly.
Nathan whirled away from the interior stairwell and tore through the basement on his way to sunlight. The clutter of boxes and equipment all seemed so harmless now. A drunk arose from a corner near the exit door, perhaps intending to relieve Nathan of a few dollars, but he shrank away from whatever he saw burning in the boy's eyes.
Propelled by fear, Nathan plowed through the exterior door as if it weren't there, slamming it against the wall hard enough to break the doorknob. Thirteen steps later, he was at ground level, sprinting across the street toward a schoolyard. The sirens were extremely close now.
The drunk startled Pointer as he pursued his prey through the basement, earning him a bullet through the heart.
By the time the Hit Man had cleared the exterior stairs and reached ground level, the first of the arriving police cars was already visible down the street, and Nathan had started to blend in with the schoolyard scenery across the street. Just before disappearing around the far corner of the school building, the boy paused and gave him the finger.
Pointer found that amusing. In a smooth and well-practiced motion, Pointer unthreaded the silencer from his weapon and surreptitiously slipped the Magnum back into its holster. He nodded politely to the first string of arriving cop cars and strolled casually across the street toward the school.
Chapter 37
Petrelli called Stephanie back, and within minutes, they'd r matched the telephone number to its address. And because the number originated with a third party, Petrelli remained compliant with Judge Verone's order. The arrest would stick.
So fuck you right back, Michaels, Petrelli thought with a smile.
Nathan's Run (1996) Page 29