Nathan’s Run

by John Gilstrap

  Mark saw a distant light on his horizon, the faintest glimmer of hope. “That’s good, Pointer. Give me one more chance—”

  Pointer cut him off again. “What, do I look crazy? You’re not getting a second chance at anything but living. I’ll take care of whacking the kid. Your job is to wait for the papers from your lawyer.”

  In the long pause that followed, Mark knew there was something else coming, but he chose to wait rather than asking.

  “There’s one more matter we need to discuss—two, actually.

  First, you’re a minority shareholder in your inheritance now. Mr. Slater’s share went up to two million. That’s the price of a fuckup these days. Plus, I’m gonna add another three hundred thousand to let you live. Add to that another two hundred thou that you already owe me personally, and that makes your total bill about two million five. What’s left is yours.”

  An objection formed in Mark’s throat, but he swallowed it quickly, before it could do any damage. The price of staying alive had suddenly become awfully steep. “I can live with that:’ he said, wincing at the unintentional pun.

  Pointer laughed. “I bet you can. Now, that leaves us with one more bit of business.”

  Sensing, incorrectly, that the worst was over for now, Mark sighed deeply and leaned forward to listen.

  “You see, Mark,” Pointer explained, “I have a reputation to consider, too. And the simple fact of the matter is that I can’t afford to let you go on out of here without fucking you up.” He smoothly and slowly withdrew a pistol from a holster somewhere beneath the slick leather jacket, thumbed the hammer back, and placed the muzzle an inch from Mark’s right eye. He stood and pushed his chair back with his foot, giving himself some room to move around. Once standing, he shifted the gun from his right hand to his left, never moving the barrel from its perfect line to Mark’s brain. “Are you right-handed or left-handed?” he asked.

  “L-left,” Mark stammered, in a whimpering tone that made Pointer feel sick to his stomach.

  Pointer pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from an inside pocket and handed them over to Mark. “Here,” he said. “Let me see your signature here.”

  Mark’s shoulders sagged visibly as he realized that his lie was transparent. There were real tears in his eyes now, to go along with the very real fear. “I’m sorry, Pointer,” he pleaded. “I made a mistake. Actually, I—I’m right-handed.”

  “Put your right hand on the table,” Pointer commanded. As he spoke, something changed behind his eyes. Even in the darkness of the tavern Mark could see it. It was a chilling, calculating coldness. They were the eyes of evil.

  Mark was vaguely aware that he had just pissed all over himself, adding yet another odor to the offensive bouquet that greeted him when he entered. He shook his head pitifully, not in defiance, but as a plea for leniency.

  “Don’t make me ask more than once,” Pointer advised. “You need to remember that Mr. Slater and I don’t need your money. The money’s only important because it hurts you. And we owe you a lot of pain. Now, you make the choice. I can put a bullet in your eye right now, or you can put your hand on the table like I asked.”

  Mark’s hand shook violently, out of control, as he complied with the orders and placed his hand on the table. His entire world consisted only of the huge circular void that was the muzzle of the cannon pointed at his face. He wondered morbidly if he’d actually be able to see the nose of the bullet as it cleared the opening on its way to kill him.

  “These are the rules:’ Pointer explained. “If you make a sound, I’ll pull the trigger. No matter how bad it hurts, you just sit there quietly for once in your life and be a man. You understand?”

  Mark was openly sobbing now, his. Facial features contorted like a small child’s as tears cascaded down his cheeks. But there was no sound.

  A look of amusement settled into Pointer’s face as he wrapped his fist around the forefinger on Mark’s right hand and pressed his thumb firmly at the digit’s base, halfway between the second and third knuckle. Amusement turned to a wide grin as he steadily added more pressure with his thumb and leveraged upwards with the fingertip. His other hand remained firmly wrapped around the grip of his pistol.

  After about five seconds, Mark’s second knuckle dislocated with a soft pop, like the sound you’d get pinching bubble wrap. Lights danced before his eyes, and he felt his gorge rise in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. And he didn’t make a sound. Ten seconds later, the finger broke midshaft, under Pointer’s thumb. Mark’s whole body jumped as pain shot like a spike all the way to his shoulder, causing him to bite through his lower lip.

  When Pointer let go, Mark’s finger stuck straight up at the break, like a fleshy flagpole. Proud that he had made no noise, and that he was still alive as a result, he recovered his mangled hand and cradled it like a baby in the crook of his left elbow. Then he noticed that the gun hadn’t moved.

  “I’m sorry, Mark,” Pointer said, the grin still there, “but we’re not done yet. The first finger was for fucking up. Now we’ve got to break one for telling me you were left-handed. We have to discover a basis for trust in our relationship. Now, put your hand back on the table:’

  Mark’s hand had already swollen to twice its normal size as blood poured internally from ruptured vessels. Movement of any sort was excruciating, but the mental agony of going through this one more time was almost more than he could bear. Without the gentle support of his other hand, the broken finger wobbled back and forth at the break line, grinding bone ends against each other. He hoped he would pass out, giving Pointer the option of ending this while he was unconscious. But of course, no such thing happened.

  This time, Pointer made it easy, grabbing Mark’s pinky even as he rested it on the table and wrenching it quickly backwards and sideways, nearly severing the finger at its root. This time Mark howled in agony, unable to control his voice, and he slipped from his chair down onto the filthy floor. Pointer considered shooting him on principle, but decided to ignore it. The son of a bitch had held out longer than he would have thought, anyway. He eased the hammer down and reholstered the Magnum. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Bailey. Write when you can. I’ll call you when we need you.”

  As deliberately as he’d entered, Pointer strolled to the exit, telling the bartender as he passed, “My friend over there will pick up the tab. Be patient with him, though. Might take a few minutes for him to get the money out of his pocket.”

  In reply, the bartender nodded politely and studiously avoided making any eye contact. No one in the Hillbilly Tavern had seen a thing.

  Chapter 14

  Nathan licked the last of the pizza sauce off his thumb and forefinger and slumped backwards into the soft leather cushions of the sofa, thoroughly satisfied. Where a family-size frozen pizza had once resided on a cardboard tray, there were now only crumbs and a single orphaned pepperoni, which he quickly dispatched with one bite. He launched an enormous belch, and laughed aloud as the sound reverberated off the walls of the family room.

  After hanging up with The Bitch, he’d listened for another hour or so in the bedroom as callers branded him either innocent and cute—Jeeze!—or guilty and vicious. There seemed to be no middle ground. He thought it was pretty cool that The Bitch was supportive. The more he listened, the more he became convinced that she was on his side.

  A guy could only ignore his stomach for so long, though. He was getting bored with the radio anyway, so he switched it off with an hour still left in The Bitch’s time slot and headed downstairs, where he launched a search-and-destroy mission looking for something to eat. The pantry proved to be as empty as the refrigerator had been the night before, but a quick look in the mud room revealed a freezer full of his favorite foods. Once he realized that the pizza was too big for the microwave, he followed the directions on the back of the box and cooked it in the oven. While he waited the required twelve to sixteen minutes, he mixed a vat of orange juice from frozen concentrate. He cou
ldn’t find a pitcher, so he used a stew pot.

  Once lunch was ready, Nathan camped out on the floor of the family room, in front of a round coffee table. The remote control he found for the entertainment center looked like something invented. by NASA, with blue, green, red and yellow buttons. He pushed buttons at random until the big screen popped to life. None of the cable cartoons he liked were on, so he settled for a Star Trek rerun. Those guys were so lame. By, the time the twenty-third century came around, you’d think people would wear something more hip than high-heeled boots and skin-tight polyester. Captain Kirk was in the process of being beaten up—with his shirt off, of course, while everyone else was fully clothed. Nathan wondered with mild amusement why anyone would agree to be the guest star. Sure as hell, when you got beamed down with the regulars, you were doomed.

  At the bottom-of-the-hour break, Nathan saw his face again on the screen—from a fuzzy video picture he hadn’t seen before—with a teaser voice-over for the News at Noon. Being famous was getting to be pretty cool. He wasn’t afraid anymore; at least not the same way he had been. He wasn’t sure where that shot of emotion on the telephone had come from, but he still hated himself for nearly breaking down. He still had friends, after all—somewhere. There was Jacob Protsky, his best friend and soccer teammate, and David Harrellson, who’d shared every classroom with Nathan since first grade. They’d undoubtedly be paying attention to all of this, and a guy had to be careful about his reputation.

  Nathan thought about Huck Finn—not the one in the book, which was too boring for him to finish, but the one in the movies. When Huck was about his age, he outsmarted everybody, and got away from the law. Even helped people along the way. That’s what Nathan was going to do. He was going to live an adventure, moving from house to house, maybe sometimes camping out in the woods. Problem was, Huck had Jim to talk to and help him figure out his problems. Much as Nathan hated to admit it, grown-ups just knew more about certain things that he really needed help with. Like coming up with a plan. Huck and Jim had a plan. They used the cover of night to raft upstream to the free states, where Jim could find his family and Huck could start a new life.

  What am I going to do?

  He knew that his first priority should be putting distance between himself and the JDC, and though he had no real concept of where he was, he figured he couldn’t be more than a mile or two from where he started. That put him in the hottest part of the search area. The morning news shows had shown pictures of search parties and roadblocks, all looking for him. The reporter had even gone so far as to say that there were no leads as to his whereabouts. He figured, then, that he’d made a “clean getaway,” as they said in the movies. Now he just had to work out the next step.

  Huck was little help to him here. Nathan had no raft; hell, there wasn’t even a river. And Huck didn’t have to worry about everybody in the country seeing his picture on TV and knowing what he looked like. He also didn’t have to worry about police cars and radios and faxes and radar and all the other stuff the cops had today just to make your life miserable.

  On the other hand, Huck didn’t have access to those things either, did he? In one morning, Nathan had heard people change their minds about him, just because he talked on the radio. If he could change minds with a single call, what could he do with more calls? He was already the lead story on all the news shows, but television was still portraying him as the bad guy. He had to figure out a way to switch that around. He was a decent guy who’d gotten into trouble. He’d killed only to protect himself. If he could get the opportunity to tell the truth often enough, then people might start believing him. Television commercials did the same thing all the time, didn’t they? If people could accept what a make-believe psychic said, they had to believe his story, didn’t they? It was the truth, after all. All he had to do was call every radio station in the state and tell them his story.

  Shit! Cops can trace phone calls!

  Sure, The Bitch said they couldn’t trace the calls to her show, but what about the others?

  Maybe The Bitch was wrong and the cops were outside waiting for him right now. Maybe there were rules about breaking down the doors to houses this nice. A quick and cautious check of the street from behind the small seam in the living room drapes out front revealed just a normal, empty summer street. Not even any kids running around. He figured that in a neighborhood like this everybody went away to day camp in the summer. That’s what he used to do.

  So The Bitch was right after all—at least so far. And if she was wrong and cops were still on the way, well, that wasn’t something he could worry about. But he decided to cancel his planned telephone blitz. No sense taking unnecessary chances.

  So now there was the matter of distance. Walking wouldn’t do. Not only was it too slow, but the news had said something about dogs trying to sniff him down. There had to be another solution.

  If I could only drive.

  Wait a minute! Why couldn’t he drive? Driving Uncle Mark’s pickup truck was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. And it wasn’t so long ago that Nathan had driven Granddad’s ancient pickup truck around the fun farm in Gainesville. Purchased for a song in 1979, the eighteen-acre spread with its squalid little ranch house and collapsing barn had served as a place for Granddad to play farmer during his retirement years. Nathan loved going out there, mostly for the well-stocked ponds, but also for the old standard-shift ’68 Ford, which he was allowed to drive anywhere on the property so long as he stayed away from the water and the buildings. Granddad had even fashioned some detachable wooden blocks so he could reach the pedals.

  After Granddad died, Nathan found out that the fun farm would be his one day, but that he couldn’t visit the place anymore because some lawyer in New York had rented it to somebody who turned it into a bowling alley. Nathan didn’t even like bowling.

  A year ago, Nathan had made it nearly twenty-five miles in Uncle Mark’s truck before the cop pulled him over, and that was in the middle of the day when everybody noticed a kid driving a car. He smiled as he remembered dragging Uncle Mark’s prized vehicle along fifty feet of guardrail and into a maple tree before surrendering to the police. He realized that it was this final act of defiance which likely got him thrown into Juvey, but he still thought it was funny.

  If he could do his traveling at night and avoid the major roads with their roadblocks, and if he could keep the car on the road, he might just be able to drive himself right out of the country!

  Like everything else in this palace, the garage was huge. Closest to the door from the kitchen was a blank space, the home for the vehicle currently in use by the family. Dry stains on the concrete floor told the story of a once-leaky transmission. In the middle slot, there stood a gleaming fiberglass speedboat with twin Evinrude motors, mounted securely on a trailer.

  Huck Finn’s book would have been a lot shorter if they had one of those babies, he thought as he ran his fingers wistfully over the slick, sparkle-flecked surface of the hull. Waterskiing was one of the skills his father had promised him, way back when promises were still kept.

  The item he’d hoped to find was in the third and final stall, covered by a light-olive tarp. Only the very bottom radius of the wheels showed beneath the cover. Without hesitating a beat, Nathan grabbed the front corner of the tarp and pulled it off the car.

  “Wa-hoa!” he exclaimed aloud, showing the purest possible admiration. Before him rested a brand-new cherry-red BMW convertible, the coolest-looking car on the street. The keys, bearing the handwritten tag, BMW, were on a hook labeled KEYS that was mounted on the wall just to the left of the driver’s door. The other keys on the peg were labeled BOAT and RANGE ROVER. He figured they took the Rover on vacation.

  The driver’s door was unlocked, so he opened it and slid into the front seat. The leather was softer even than his dad’s old lounge chair, and a hell of a lot more comfortable than the torn vinyl in Uncle Mark’s 61 pickup. His jaw was slack with wonder as he stroked the seats
and gripped the steering wheel, navigating the vehicle in his mind through the turns in the highways he’d soon travel. Almost as an afterthought, he put the key in the ignition and turned it just enough to arm the electrical systems. By process of elimination, he found the buttons controlling the seat position and adjusted it all the way forward, till his feet could touch the pedals. It would be a stretch, but at least they reached.

  A grin crossed Nathan’s face. This could work. It had to work. As he played the scenario in his mind, he felt his confidence grow geometrically by the second. All the ifs and maybes were of no consequence to him. He’d beaten the odds to this point, and he’d beat them the rest of the way. Whether it would work or not was irrelevant. What mattered was that he had a plan.

  Denise felt like dancing. In the hours since she’d signed off the air, she’d received countless phone calls and faxes from people expressing interest one way or another in the day’s show. Each of the three network morning talk shows had asked for live interviews the next day, but only Good Morning America offered to bring her to their Washington studios via limousine, so that was the one she accepted. The rest wanted to interview her from her home, and as someone who obsessed about cleaning up for relatives, she wasn’t equipped to entertain 40 million Americans before dawn.

  If Denise looked ecstatic, Enrique looked like he’d taken a beating. The show had been over for hours, yet calls kept pouring in. Denise had only spoken to the people who got past Enrique, and he had personally spoken with over three hundred people. Even his hair was disheveled, and his hair was never anything short of perfect. Per the secret pact he had made with himself at the conclusion of the show, at exactly four o’clock, he laid the receiver on its cradle, with a caller still running her mouth, and turned off his telephone, routing all calls electronically to The Bitch Phone, a glorified answering machine that was billed as a way for people to sound off during hours when the usual lines were jammed.