In an instant, his hunger disappeared, replaced with an urgent need to go to the bathroom. He found one in the main hall, across from the stairs, with exactly no time to spare. In the darkness, he purged his bowels with a single liquid blast.
Finished, Nathan closed the door and flipped on the wall switch. With no windows in the bathroom, he could safely turn on a light. The image of the boy in the mirror frightened him. That boy looked sixty years old. His eyes were dark hollows, one of them severely swollen. His blond hair was brown with grime and matted to his head, pushed in every direction. He looked frail in the drooping coveralls, the shoulders of the garment hanging nearly halfway to his elbows. And the blood. He was soaked in it. When he moved, little chips of coagulated blood flaked off like powder and drifted to the floor.
Using both hands, Nathan pulled the lapels of the coveralls apart and ripped the zipper from its stitching. More than anything else in the world, he wanted out of those clothes. He moved quickly and clumsily, as though the prison uniform were covered with spiders. With his shoulders clear, he dropped the collar to the floor and quick-marched free of the pantlegs.
There was blood on his underpants, too, which he ripped off and tossed onto the pile. Staring at the mess on the floor as though it were some kind of beast, he retreated into the corner near the bathtub. He crouched in a ball near the floor, wondering how he was going to get past the pile of clothes without touching it.
It still was not off of him! Ricky’s blood had soaked all the way through his clothes and stained his skin. His skin.
Nathan jumped to his feet. With one hand he tore open the shower curtain, while the other turned the shower knob all the way to hot. He didn’t even wait for the water to run warm before he stepped inside and closed the curtain.
At first the frigid water took his breath away, cleared his mind. Nathan stood unmoving as the water pelted his face, moving past warm and into hot. Not until he felt that he would be scalded did he reach out to normalize the temperature. He found a bar of soap in the dish and slowly, deliberately began to wash away the nightmare. Behind closed eyes, he tried to revel in the simple pleasure of the hot water, a privilege he had been so long denied. But the darkness brought demons instead.
The image of Ricky Harris lurked behind Nathan’s eyelids. He watched the man die all over again. Nathan saw his own hands covering the hole in Ricky’s belly, trying desperately to slow down the bright red spurts, only to have them leak through his fingers. Nathan replayed the horrible sounds that Ricky made; the horrid gurgling, choking sound as he sought a breath that wouldn’t come.
Then he saw Ricky’s eyes, angry and frightened. He felt Ricky’s bloody hand around his throat…
The pictures stopped when Nathan opened his eyes. As the water and grime ran down his body and swirled into the drain, he wiggled his toes in the soapy froth and tried to smile. A smile makes the saddest man a little happier, his father used to say, but had he ever felt this much sadness?
“God, I miss you:’ Nathan said aloud, his voice a whisper. He turned his face toward the ceiling. “I’m in so much trouble, Dad. Please help me. You’ve got to help me.”
The emotions Nathan had fought so long to control broke free all at once. He started to cry, silently at first, and then, dropping his chin to his chest and covering his eyes with his palms, he gave in to long, miserable sobs.
Outside, a hard summer rain pounded heavily, providing nourishment for the ground, swelling creeks to their banks, and forever washing away the trail of a frightened twelve-year-old boy.
Chapter 7
Men me what we know, Jed,” Michaels invited, leaning back in his i squeaky vinyl desk chair. It was morning again, the day after the Fourth of July, and Michaels wore a lightweight khaki suit with a crisply starched shirt and a yellow tie with tiny red polka dots. While he would never admit it aloud, there was no question that Hackner’s attention to style had impacted the dress code of the entire division.
Thumbing through his ever-present notebook, Hackner ticked off the failures of the past twelve hours. “The searches and roadblocks didn’t turn up a thing last night, and created a nightmare during rush hour this morning. The rain last night obliterated any trail we might have had for the dogs. Dr. Cooper’s on vacation, so the medical examiner’s office told me this morning that they probably won’t get to Ricky Harris’s autopsy until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.
“By the way,” Hackner noted parenthetically, looking up from his notebook, “the stab wound count went up this morning to at least six. Apparently I missed one when I was counting last night.”
Having missed the presence of the murder weapon himself, Michaels knew better than to make a smartass comment.
Hackner continued: “Our esteemed county prosecutor, the Honorable J. Daniel Petrelli, has caused a run on the pancake makeup market this morning, getting himself interviewed on all the local morning talk shows. Word has it that Good Morning America has a call in to him for tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, Christ,” Michaels moaned. Having gotten into bed at a little after three, he’d opted to sleep through the morning news. “And what does Mr. Hollywood have to say to the residents of our fine community?”
“Same old bullshit. He’s going to prosecute the Bailey kid as an adult and throw his ass in jail for the rest of his life. When pressed by the reporter, he said he would not rule out the death penalty.”
Michaels laughed. “Oh, right. He’s gonna find a judge that’ll fry a twelve-year-old:’
“He didn’t say he was going to,” Hackner corrected dutifully. “He said that he couldn’t rule it out.”
“Well, of course he couldn’t. He hasn’t had a chance to do a poll yet.” Michaels made no attempt to hide his disdain for Petrelli. While ambitious prosecutors normally made some pretense of denying their political ambitions, Petrelli had for the past five years made it known to the electorate that he wanted to be the next U. S. Senator representing the Commonwealth of Virginia.
The only cases he prosecuted personally were the ones that met the two-part standard of being both highly publicized and sure to win. Only when there were three eyewitnesses and a videotape of the crime would the public see J. Daniel Petrelli in the courtroom. Unless, of course, it was to claim credit for the hard work of one of his assistants in winning a more difficult case. Michaels could only imagine what Petrelli had had to say this morning. A central theme of his campaign rhetoric had been the loss of morality among young people. With elections only four months away, Petrelli could not have asked for a better platform from which to pontificate.
“I presume that he has been true to his form and set us incompetent flatfoots up to take the fall if something goes wrong?”
“Of course.”
“Of course. I swear to God, Jed, if one of my kids grows up to be an idiot, I’m gonna make her become a politician:’
Hackner smiled. “I guess your father had a different strategy.”
Even Michaels’s signature glare looked tired. “You’re getting pretty quick there, Patrolman-er, excuse me, Sergeant Hackner. Anything else?”
“Nothing good. Patrols are all looking for the kid; we got a better picture to work with by lifting it out of his fifth-grade yearbook.” He handed a copy to Michaels.
“Doesn’t look much like a murderer, does he?” Michaels commented.
“The good ones never do.”
The boy in the picture could have stepped off the front of a cereal box. This boy smiled easily, flashing blue eyes and sparkling teeth at the camera. Towheaded and athletic, the boy in the picture appeared not to have a care in the world. Such a contrast to the official photo attached to his Juvey file jacket.
Michaels sighed. “No, I suppose they don’t. By the way, who released the kid’s picture to the media?”
“Guess.”
“Petrelli?”
“I can’t prove it, but who else? I talked to one of his minions about it this morning and he got real defensiv
e, babbling that the law allows the release of a juvenile escapee’s picture so long as certain criteria are met. Frankly, I lost interest halfway through the answer. One thing he never said, though, was ‘no.’”
Warren shook his head and handed the photo back to Jed. “Well, screw it. They’re the lawyers, I guess. Are the troops assembled?”
“Yep. All ready and waiting to be inspired.”
Together, Michaels and Hackner rose from their chairs and headed across the squad room to the small conference room, where three other division heads had gathered. Michaels marched to the front of the room and went straight to the point.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice. You all know by now that there was a murder at the JDC last night, and that the suspected killer is out there on the streets. The killer is a twelve-year-old boy.” As Michaels spoke, Hackner passed out copies of the yearbook picture.
“The press is already beginning to have some fun with this story,” Michaels continued, “reporting along your basic David and Goliath theme—SMALL BOY OUTWITS POLICE FORCE, you know the deal. I want to stress to each and every one of you that I want this case closed, and Nathan Bailey reincarcerated, today. Thus far, our searches and roadblocks haven’t turned up a thing. Sergeant Hackner will be getting the state boys involved in this after our meeting, but I personally would like this to be resolved while it is still a local matter. Frankly, I don’t need the shit that’s going to come down on us if we get beaten by that kid. Have I made my position clear?”
Heads nodded across the conference table.
“Good, then get your folks on the street motivated to catch him.”
With that, the meeting ended.
As Michaels traversed the twenty feet to the door, he overheard one of the division heads comment, “Sure is a cute kid.”
Michaels stopped in his tracks and turned to face the source of the comment. The patented glare was retuned and working perfectly. “I’ll remind you, Bob, that that cute kid murdered a fellow law-enforcement officer last night. If you do your job, he won’t have the chance to do it again.”
Chapter 8
Nathan awoke naked but warm under a downy comforter in the middle of a king-size bed. The sun shone through the open blinds at just the right angle to sting his eyes into wakefulness. The last time he looked at the digital clock next to him on the night-stand, it had read two forty-three. Now it was nine forty-eight. Annoyed that his rest had been cut short, he grumbled and rolled to his side, turning away from the invading rays of the sun and burying his head between two pillows.
Moments later, the room was filled with the sound of a disc jockey, blaring from the clock radio. Some chatter followed, which Nathan tried to ignore in an effort to recapture the peace of sleep. The content of the conversation drifted in and out of his consciousness, something to do with a health plan and taxes. Whatever it was, it sure sparked a lot of emotion, with people yelling at each other. Finally, enough was enough, and Nathan blindly slapped at the top of the radio until the noise stopped.
At peace once again, and in a quiet room, Nathan settled his head back between the pillows and waited for sleep to return. But it was too late. The spell had been broken. He was awake, and his mind was already beginning to fill with thoughts of what he needed to do to plan his escape.
Kind of hard when you don’t even know where you’re going.
Whatever he decided to do, he was going to have to think things through very carefully. The nervous, fluttery feeling returned to the pit of his stomach. The images of Ricky were lurking just behind a closed door in his mind. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have to look at them again.
He pushed the thoughts away. There was plenty of time to plan, he told himself, and God knew there was plenty of time to worry. He’d get to all of that later. The clock read ten o’clock now; there had to be some good cartoons on cable. Last night—or really this morning, he supposed—as he wandered into the master bedroom in the dark, the first feature he noticed was the enormous big-screen TV in the corner opposite the enormous bed.
Nathan found the remote on the nightstand and thumbed the ON button. The huge screen jumped to life with startling speed.
The channel was set on a news station, with the volume turned all the way down. Nathan looked down at the remote to figure out how to make the proper adjustments, and when he looked up again, he was greeted with a table-sized picture of himself glaring sullenly out of the screen. It was the picture they took of him when he was first arrested. He mashed the UP arrow on the volume control and left it there until the voice-over was plainly audible.
_ _ _ at large. Police refuse to speculate on a motive behind the murder, but sources close to the Braddock County Prosecutor’s Office advise that the age of the fugitive will have little effect on the manner in which the case is prosecuted?’
The screen cut to a videotape of an older man wearing a suit, standing in front of the JDC building. Nathan didn’t like the man’s eyes. They had the heartless look of all the creeps he’d had to deal with in the juvenile justice system. The electronic letters superimposed across the man’s chest identified him as J. Daniel Petrelli, Commonwealth’s Attorney.
“We cannot overstate the seriousness of this crime,” Petrelli said, looking directly into the camera. “We believe that Nathan Bailey killed Mr. Harris, and we will pursue him and the charges against him with all the vigor appropriate to the offenses with which he is charged.”
“What will happen to him if he’s caught?” a voice asked from off-camera. “Will you return him to the Juvenile Detention Center?”
Petrelli didn’t even pause to consider the options available to him before answering, “When he is caught, which we have every reason to believe will happen today, it is my intent at this time to prosecute the young man as an adult. If he can commit a grown-up crime, he can pay the grown-up price.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting the death penalty,” the off-camera voice asked.
Petrelli chuckled coolly and raised his hands next to his face. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, let’s get Mr. Bailey back behind bars. We’ll worry about his ultimate disposition as we prepare for trial.”
“The death penalty,” Nathan gasped aloud. “Geez, that means the electric chair.” He was completely mesmerized by what he was watching. He’d never heard his name on television before, and he’d certainly never seen his picture there. (He wished they could have found one that made him look less evil.) Filling out a morning of firsts, he had never been called a murderer before, either. “You’ve really shit in the punch bowl this time, buddy,” he scolded himself, swiping a phrase often used by his father.
The screen cut back to the anchorman behind a desk. “John Ogilsvy has been tracking the police investigation for us since this story first broke. John, are the police even close to finding Nathan Bailey?”
“Well, Peter,” John Ogilsvy said, “all morning long, the Braddock County Police have been long on details about the effort to locate the boy, but short on information about the results of their efforts.” The picture changed again to show a tired-looking man in a red-and-blue Izod shirt standing behind a bank of microphones. The electronic caption identified this man as Lt. Warren Michaels, Braddock County Police Department.
The only sound associated with the pictures continued to come from John Ogilsvy. “Detective Lieutenant Warren Michaels addressed reporters late last night and in the very early hours of this morning with what has to be very embarrassing news for the police. According to Michaels, there may have been as much as a two-hour delay in beginning the search for the escapee, and once that search finally got under way, a number of factors conspired to foul up the operation. These factors included everything from traffic delays to last night’s torrential rainstorm, which rendered useless the bloodhounds normally used to track down fugitives.
“Before the book is finally closed on this case, somebody may have to answer some very tough questions on the handling of it. With e
lections just around the corner, it seems likely that J. Daniel Petrelli may be that person, and that the people asking the questions may be the electorate. Reporting live from the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center, this is John Ogilsvy, Action News.”
The anchorman shifted gears to Cuban refugees coming to Florida, so Nathan punched the MUTE button on the remote, rendering the newscaster voiceless. Nathan knew that the news report should have frightened him, and it did a little, but mostly he felt proud. He’d been gone over twelve hours now, and they still didn’t know where he was.
That meant he had some time to think.
Cartoons were suddenly unimportant in the extreme. He still had to find clothes and food and a way to stay ahead of the cops. For the first time, Nathan began to believe that he might actually outwit them. The problem with grown-ups was that they always thought like grown-ups. It was funny, really. Kids had never been grown up, yet they knew exactly what older people were thinking, while adults had spent years being kids, but they could never figure out how to think like kids. Nathan had heard countless adults complaining over the years how they didn’t understand what was going on in their own kids’ heads. It was simple. They were trying to piss off their parents.
Nathan wondered if, normally, any kids lived in this house; specifically, a kid his size. Thoughts of prosecutions and death penalties were foreign to him, and easily pushed aside. But the prospect of being captured naked was too awful to even think about.
The upstairs hallway was arranged in a sweeping semicircle that spanned out to Nathan’s left. The bedroom doors, all constructed of heavy lumber and stained mahogany, were closed. The center area leading to the bedrooms was big enough to be the site of a good-sized party. To Nathan’s right was a curved stairwell, dominated by a four-tiered gold chandelier with a million glass ornaments dangling from every surface. He’d seen a similar fixture in the lobby of a hotel once, but never in a house.
Nathan’s Run Page 3
