The race was on.
"Oh, my God," Denise gasped into her microphone. "The police officer has just shot two people! ning down the street trying to get away! The poor thing has been telling the truth." She was crying, something she'd never before done on the radio.
"Run, sweetie!" she begged. "Where are the real police, dammit!?"
The 911 lines exploded at the Emergency Operations Center, giving frantic reports of people shot outside of Fisher's Hardware Store. More than half of the callers took the time to explain that Nathan Bailey had been there, but that he hadn't done the shooting.
In the command van, Petrelli hovered over Murphy's shoulder as they watched the drama unfold live on television. At first, the sheriff was pleased with news of the arrest. Then he saw the strange uniform and watched two voters fall to the ground, and he knew right away that Michaels had been right all along. He also knew that all of his deputies were out of position, setting up a trap for the Bailey boy at the Lewis and Clark Memorial.
He issued orders for the dispatcher to move all units in the direction of the shooting, then countermanded them a minute later when he realized that Nathan was leading the chase toward the square.
Michaels considered the possibility that the first shot was a backfire. At the sound of the second report, he knew better. He drew his S&W snub-nose and took off in that direction.
It wasn't until he saw the commotion on the street that he noticed two helicopters hovering low about a block ahead. He took a few seconds to hang his gold shield in his suit coat pocket, then sprinted toward the action.
God, it was hot!
Steadman was pissed. No one seemed to know what was going on. First he was told to set up the sniper's post, then he was told to break it down, then he was told to set it up again. Shots had been fired, yet no one was authorized to leave their posts. Murphy insisted on commanding things himself, but he couldn't make a damned decision.
From his position, Steadman couldn't tell where the shots had been fired, so he followed Michaels with his scope, having to move from the front window to the side window to track his progress. The range had changed, though, and he couldn't keep focus in the scope, so he looked away to get oriented to the full range of vision.
Steadman's heart skipped a beat when he saw a filthy, tattered boy fitting Nathan Bailey's description dart into his field of view. A uniformed cop he didn't recognize was only a few steps behind.
He brought the rifle up into position and hurriedly adjusted the scope to the new range.
Nathan tried to speed up, but there was nothing left in his legs. He willed them to pump faster, and they would for a few steps, but they had gotten clumsy. He felt himself start to trip three times, and was able to recover, but he knew he'd lost valuable distance. The same heavy stride he'd heard in the apartment building was drawing steadily closer, and there was nothing he could do about it.
People all recognized him now as they jumped out of his way to avoid a collision. He didn't have enough wind in his lungs to ask anyone for help, not that they would have given it anyway.
"That boy is a fugitive!" Pointer bellowed from behind him.
"Stop him!"
A huge high school kid wearing a football jersey emblazoned with a big "78" did just that, stepping in front of the boy and catching all of his momentum with his left arm. It was much easier than stopping quarterbacks, he thought.
Nathan didn't have the strength left to fight the football player. When he felt Pointer yank him back by his shirt collar, he knew that he was dead. He swung wildly with his fists as he was spun around, but stopped when a powerful backhand caught him square in the face. He heard a snap as his nose broke, and his vision disappeared in a blur of tears and blood.
Action News caught it all, in extreme close-up. Alone in his apartment, Billy Alexander covered his eyes and cried.
Denise Carpenter wished she didn't have to be on the radio anymore. "Oh, Jesus, no," she pleaded. "It can't end this way. Someone has to help that poor kid."
Warren slowed his stride when he saw Nathan plunging through the crowd toward him, relieved that he was still alive, though the terror in the boy's eyes told him that danger was right on his heels. He remembered Nathan telling him that the killer was a cop, and so he was. In a Braddock County uniform, no less!
The kid in the football jersey came out of nowhere, and really fucked things up. Before Warren could react, Pointer had wrapped a forearm around the front of Nathan's throat and had begun to drag him off.
Warren dashed another thirty feet to get a better angle, then shouted out to the police imposter.
"Police officer! Don't move!" Warren yelled, his voice breaking from the effort.
Pointer reacted instantly, lifting Nathan off the ground by his chin and using his wriggling body as a shield. The boy brought his hands up to his attacker's arm, doing a chin-up to keep from strangling.
"Back off, pig, or I'll pop him here!" Pointer yelled, bringing the Magnum up to the boy's temple. His threat was barely audible above the din of the hovering choppers.
"I'm not going anywhere!" Michaels declared. "You let the boy go, and you live. That's the only deal you get. Anything else happens and you die!" Warren tried to look menacing in his two-handed shooter's stance, but in his heart he knew he could never make the shot without hitting Nathan.
The situation had been played to a standoff. No one would shoot as long as Pointer had the boy as his shield, and Nathan was the only bargaining chip that Pointer had left. As he played out his bluff, Warren was vaguely aware of the arrival of a swarm of other police officers.
In the command van, Murphy slammed his fist on the console. "I don't fucking believe it," he declared to the room. "I've got a murderer being held hostage by a kidnapper impersonating a police officer! Where the hell are the good guys?"
He snatched the microphone away from the dispatcher. "Command to SWAT Leader. Give me a report."
"It's bad, Sheriff," said a metallic voice from the speaker. "We're stuck until something breaks. I think it's a bad idea to move in any closer."
Shit. "Command to Sniper One, what kind of shot do you have?"
The range had increased to a hundred yards, and Steadman's sight picture was half-cop and half-boy, and moving around crazily.
"Shitty," he replied. "Who's my target, anyway? The police officer or the kid?" It seemed obvious enough, he supposed, but one doesn't blast another cop without being very damned sure.
After a pause, Murphy answered, "It appears that the cop is your primary target, unless the kid poses a threat to somebody. Remember, he's still a killer."
Nathan couldn't breathe. With his feet dangling in the air, his arms didn't have the strength to continue supporting him. As he lost his grip, Pointer's arm crushed his windpipe. He felt like his head was going to explode, the increased pressure causing blood to stream faster from his damaged nose. As the muzzle of the Magnum bore into his ear, Nathan wet his pants.
Out in front, through the blur and the pain, he saw a man with a gun, dressed in a brown suit with a blue shirt and a striped tie. He was shouting something that he couldn't hear. He had soft eyes that looked sad. He looked like a good guy.
"Sniper One to Command, do I have a green light if I've got a shot?"
Typical of a politician, Steadman thought. Murphy wouldn't make that decision on his own. Rather, he bumped it to the real leader on the street.
"SWAT Team Leader?"
"The situation is critical here, Sheriff. I say take what he can get."
"That's affirmative, Sniper One, you have the green light if you have a shot."
Steadman smiled. Finally his moment had arrived, but the best shot he had was a terrible shot. At this range, a slight breeze, a sudden movement by the target could turn a sure kill into a tragedy. He worked the bolt to chamber a .30-caliber round and rested the stock on the windowsill. He'd have given a lot for the comfort of his first station at the front window, but he had to settle for what he
had.
He thumbed the safety off and settled in to await his opportunity.
Then it happened. Pointer looked straight at him.
Nathan felt like he hadn't breathed in an hour. He knew death was coming to him, but he wasn't prepared for this much fear and pain. Noise and activity swirled all around him. None of it had form or meaning until Pointer hiked him up a little higher and growled in his ear, close enough that he could feel his hot breath on his cheek.
"Say goodbye, you little shit."
Nathan closed his eyes.
Steadman knew it was over as soon as they made eye contact. The target hoisted his hostage higher, reducing the sight picture even more, then said something in his ear. A sick, crazy smile appeared on the target's lips, and Steadman saw movement in the muscles of his forearms. The cylinder of the Magnum began to turn.
Sniper One had exactly no time to plan his shot. He brought the crosshairs to bear just above the target's right eyebrow-the no-reflex zone-and he pulled the trigger.
The shot was perfect. As millions of people watched live on television throughout the world, Lyle Pointer's head erupted in a gruesome pink cloud, and he crumpled instantly to the ground, as if all his bones had suddenly disappeared.
A bone-jarring impact reverberated through Nathan's body as he heard a heavy, wet thwop, followed by a sharp explosion. He screamed and dropped to the ground, certain that he had been hit. Blood was everywhere, but the pain hadn't found him yet.
As though someone had flipped a switch in his brain, he suddenly became aware of an army of armed men, all in police uniforms, charging toward him.
Not again, he thought. I'm not going through this again.
He snatched Pointer's Magnum from the sidewalk where it had landed and brandished it with both hands. "Stay away from me!" he screamed. "Stay away from me or I'll shoot!"
The blue line stopped its advance instantly, and there was a clatter of weapons as fifteen police officers dropped to shooting positions.
Across the street, Steadman worked the bolt on the Remington and settled the crosshairs on Nathan. "Sniper One to Command, second target is acquired. Requesting instructions," he said into his radio.
"Stand by," crackled his reply.
Warren darted out in front of the others, ostentatiously holstering his weapon and holding his hands out where Nathan could see them.
"It's me, Nathan," he said softly. "It's Lieutenant Michaels. We talked on the phone. We're friends, Nathan."
Nathan's eyes were wild. He cocked his head slightly at the sound of Warren's voice, like a puppy who's trying to make sense out of something unfamiliar.
"Nathan, this is over now, son. I know what happened. I know you never meant to do anybody harm. You're not in trouble anymore, son, so just put the gun down and let's sort this all out."
Nathan had been here before. He'd listened to their promises and their guarantees. He'd believed in good guys and in trust and in hope, but every time, it was just another lie. All people wanted was to hurt him, and all Nathan wanted was to be left alone.
"No, it's a trick," he declared. "You're going to kill me. Everybody's trying to kill me."
He thumbed back the hammer on the Magnum.
"Sniper One to Command, I read this situation as critical. The target is acquired. I have a perfect shot. Do I have the green light?"
Even as he asked the question, Steadman ran some calculations through his head on the damage this much bullet would do to so little a boy. The results were horrifying.
"Nathan, listen to me," Michaels said gently, looking past the gaping muzzle of the pistol into the eyes of the boy holding it. "Look at me. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, son." He took a step forward. "This is over, Nathan. You've seen too much killing. Let's let it end here." Three more steps, and he was only ten feet away.
"You've got to trust somebody, Nathan. Start with me."
Trust me. How many times had he heard that? Trust Uncle Mark. Trust the social worker. Trust the judge. Trust the supervisor. Now trust the cop.
But this cop had friendly eyes. And a smile. Nathan remembered his face from television, the one in the tennis shirt.
Staring past the heavy pistol, Nathan wanted desperately to shoot; to be shot; to end it all. But even as his finger tightened on the trigger, he knew he wouldn't do it. Maybe if Michaels had been one of the assholes from the night before, but not this guy. Not the cop with the friendly eyes.
"Let's be friends," Warren said, moving a step closer.
And that was it. Nathan's lip started to quiver as he lowered the gun and let it drop to the pavement.
"I don't have any friends," Nathan said pitifully, and he sank to his knees. His shoulders slumped and his eyes filled with tears. "I can't do this anymore," he said, and his features dissolved into those of a sad little boy who needed to be held. As he sobbed there on the sidewalk, trying to hide behind hands pressed to his eyes, his whole body heaved at the effort of it all. There was movement among the line of cops, but no one seemed to know what to do next.
Warren watched awkwardly for just a moment; then, smoothly and slowly, with the grace of one who had done it many times before, he moved to the boy and sat down next to him on the sidewalk. Self-consciously at first, but then with the warmth and tenderness of a grieving father, he drew Nathan close, his hand disappearing into the grimy tangle of the boy's hair.
Amidst the blood and filth, Nathan caught the faintest aroma of sweaty aftershave, the smell of strength. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be transported back to sunnier times.
"It's over now, son," _Warren said, his voice catching in his throat. "No one can hurt you now." As he pulled Nathan closer still, he rocked him gently back and forth. "It's okay," he whispered.
For the longest time, they just sat there together on the sidewalk and cried like babies on national television.
Chapter 39
Alone in the quiet studio, Denise watched in silence, her fingers pressed tightly to her lips, her mascara wrecked. Enrique said something in her earphones about dead air, but she couldn't make any words come out. As the television zoomed in on Nathan and the plainclothes cop, a tearful smile bloomed behind her hand. Finally, it was over.
"Way to go, Nathan:" she said into the microphone as she raised her Diet Coke to the TV. "Here's to being a kid again."
Table of Contents
Chapter 32
Nathan's Run (1996) Page 31