Everyone in the whole damned neighborhood received a morning paper, many of them two. How was he going to pick out the house on vacation if every driveway had newspapers on it? It was just one more thing he hadn’t planned for. He was scared to think about how many other things could go wrong that he hadn’t even considered. And whoever heard of a paper boy who had his route taken care of before five? When he was a paper boy a hundred years ago, he was lucky to get the Washington Post on his customers’ doorsteps before six, and even then it was because his father had wrestled him out of bed.
“Stay cool,” he told himself. “You’ll think of something.”
He finished his first complete pass without finding a single house bereft of papers. But this was still the Fourth of July holiday, and he knew in his heart that at least half of the neighborhood had to be on vacation. All he had to do was figure out which half, and make sure he didn’t make a mistake.
Your real mistake was getting yourself into this in the first place, he thought. Not that it mattered.
At the end of the tenth cul-de-sac, he swung the turn and came to a stop against the curb. The Low Fuel light was burning a bright orange now on the dash. He needed to think things through. How would MacGyver handle this, he wondered.
The first thing he’d do is take a leak.
He switched off the Beemer’s headlights and, moving as quietly as he could, slipped out the driver’s-side door, leaving the car running, and darted up the lawn to the shadow cast by a dogwood sapling near the front corner of the house. He turned his back to the road, and began relieving himself onto what appeared to be some sort of spider plant. In the silence of the night, he might as well have opened up with a fire hose, but once he’d started, there was no stopping until it was done. Middle school scuttlebutt had it that if you made yourself stop peeing before you were empty, you’d rupture your balls. Yet another thing worse than getting caught.
As he finished up and tucked himself away, his attention was drawn to a collection of three spindled handbills that had been stuffed into the handle of the screen door.
I wonder.
By taking four steps out into the yard, he could see the front doors of the neighbors’ houses, and none of them had any handbills on their doors.
Nathan, you’re a genius, he congratulated himself. To confirm his suspicion, he tiptoed up to the garage door. By standing on the metal handles he could peer through the small-paned windows into the darkness of the garage. Just as he’d hoped, there was an open spot. Better yet, there was a second car still there—a Honda, it appeared. He pumped his fist in the air. Yes! he cheered silently.
After making a mental note of the house number—4120—he jogged back to the Beemer and drove away. The first order of business was to ditch the car. He remembered passing a church just before turning into the development that would suit the task perfectly. He paid special attention to street names and the looks of his surroundings as he exited Little Rocky Creek, hoping to simplify the task of finding his way when he returned on foot.
Again, his sense of distance had betrayed him. “Just before the turn” worked out in reality to be about a half mile down the road. By the time Nathan drove the Beemer into the church lot and parked it in the furthest space out, the eastern sky was already beginning to burn red. He had no idea that dawn came so early. It wasn’t a time of day that he frequently witnessed firsthand. To his growing list of obstacles, he now had to add time.
Once out of the vehicle for the last time, he hid the keys under the mat on the driver’s side, locked the door, and closed it as quietly as he could. He hoped that maybe it really wasn’t stealing if you gave back the keys.
Sprawling before him was Saint Sebastian Catholic Church, looking more like a grounded flying saucer than it did a house of worship. For a brief moment, Nathan considered going inside for a brief chat with God—and Saint Sebastian, for that matter, if he was in the mood to listen in—but thought better of it. He was running out of time. Besides, God seemed to be listening so far.
About the time that Nathan was watering the plants, Denise Carpenter was pacing her kitchen, waiting for the limo to arrive. Enrique sat with her, propped up in a hard-backed chair, wishing with all his might that he could trade his boss in for one who was sane. For the past hour and a half he’d issued positive reviews for no less than six different outfits, this on the heels of a previous hour rating hairstyles. If he’d told her once, he had told her a thousand times that she was a beautiful woman, that it didn’t matter what she wore because she looked good in everything. It was close enough to the truth that no one could call him a liar.
More by default dictated by the ticking of the clock than by rational decision, Denise had settled on a very professional, understated kelly green suit with a gold bead necklace and matching earrings. She decided to wear her professionally straightened hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, which Enrique didn’t particularly like, but he would have cut his tongue off with a pair of scissors before he’d have said anything. Besides, she didn’t listen to any of his fashion opinions anyway, which led him to consider the option of just shooting her and moving on to a better job.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have pulled my hair back,” Denise whined.
Enrique lowered his head onto the kitchen table and closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Denise, why don’t we just shave you bald and you won’t have to worry about it at all anymore?”
Her eyes shot darts, but they never got through the force field of her producer’s exhaustion. “Come on, Rick,” she begged. “Stay awake with me. Here, have some more coffee.” She refilled his mug, emptying their second pot since midnight.
Enrique sat up straight again and gently gripped her elbow. “Den, listen to me,” he said lightly. “You look great. You’re going to do great. The only thing you have to worry about is staying awake through your radio show. America is just going to love saying good morning to you.”
Denise smiled and ran her hand through Enrique’s hair. “Thanks, Rick,” she said. “You’re such a good friend to put up with me.”
His reply was a warm, if tired smile.
“The red outfit looked better, didn’t it?”
Enrique’s head made a loud thunk when it fell back onto the table.
As the darkness lightened and the shadows turned gray, traffic started to pick up, and Nathan was forced further from the roadside and deeper into the woods. Another planning failure. He had no business being outside in the daylight where people could see him and recognize him. At least he wasn’t driving anymore, he consoled himself.
It took him every bit of forty-five minutes to make the trek back to Little Rocky Creek. Deadfalls, creepers and briar bushes all conspired to slow his progress.
It wasn’t yet six o’clock, yet the air was thick with humidity and the temperature was approaching ninety already. His clothes were soaked with perspiration, his hair matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. The hike was taking long enough that if he hadn’t just driven the route, he would have sworn that he’d made a wrong turn.
Finally, through the underbrush, he could see the turn for Little Rocky Trail. He turned parallel to the new road and soon was crossing behind back yards. It was the time of morning when people let their dogs out. One of them, a German shepherd, spied him through the slats of his fence and barked ferociously, baring its teeth and lunging against the pickets, thus igniting a chorus of barking dogs throughout the neighborhood. Nathan barked back at the dog and flipped him off. Nothing like a six-foot oak barrier to help a guy feel brave.
Back yards seemed to stretch on forever as he traipsed through the woods. Even in the comfort of his borrowed Reeboks, the cuts and bruises on the soles of his feet were reasserting themselves. In time, he reached the end of the existing construction, and could see before him where a new section of town-homes would be built. At that spot, the woods ended, opening up into a huge open swath of dirt, excavated basements and construction materials.
Forty-one twenty w
as at the end of the cul-de-sac located on the other side of Little Rocky Trail from where he was right now. His plan had been to make entry from the rear of the house, accessing it by walking in a big circle through the woods until he wound up where he needed to be. Now, he realized, the construction made that impossible.
He faced a new set of choices. If he crossed through the construction zone, he’d be sure to be seen, probably by some security guard, and this game would be over. He rejected that option first. Another possibility would have been to stay in the woods and walk all the way around the periphery of the construction cut until he ended up where he needed to be. Problem was, he couldn’t tell how long or how far that would take him. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the far edge of the construction.
Nathan decided it was time to be bold. He straightened his shoulders, combed his hair with his fingernails, and just walked out of the woods, looking for all the world like he belonged there.
Todd Briscow tossed the wad of paper towels into the kitchen trash, then stared at his hand as though to figure out where to throw it out next. His wife, Patty, was busy looking for the carpet stain remover while their six-year-old son and one-year-old Labrador cowered together across the room.
“Dammit, Peter,” Todd cursed as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink, “how many times have I told you to put away food after you use it?” The dog had just barfed up an entire jar of strawberry preserves that young Peter had left out on the counter after fixing himself some toast. And, of course, because they were finally able to afford the Persian rug they’d been saving to buy, that was the precise location the dog had selected as its vomitorium.
Peter wisely chose to say nothing, staying well out of range, and well protected by his only friend in the family right then.
When Patty returned from the basement with the stain remover, she was lockjawed with anger. Todd checked his watch for the hundredth time this morning and said exactly the wrong thing, not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
“Patty, I’ve really got to go. It’s nearly six, the Reischmann proposal begins at eight, and I’ve still got view graphs to print.”
“Why, of course you have to go,” Patty replied icily. “There’s work to be done around the house, isn’t there?”
Her words were a blatant attempt to pick a fight, leveraging the neverending argument centered around the you-never-do-anything-I’m-always-stuck-with-the-rotten-jobs theme. The premise of the argument was as true as it was false. His work as an account executive for the telephone company kept him working most nights and weekends, but he tried his best to factor in family time. It was the major frustration of his life that he no longer controlled his time—the one element he valued most over all the others. What time he had left after doing his job was controlled by Patty and her assigned chores. To be sure, there were hours left at the end of each day, but his body demanded that he dedicate those to sleep.
He declined to take the bait, choosing instead to ignore her comment. She was as stressed as he was, and that damned rug meant a whole lot to her. When he bent down to kiss her goodbye, she turned her face away. He kissed her on the neck anyway.
“I’m really sorry, Patty, but I’ve got to go,” he said. He picked up his briefcase and walked toward the garage, pausing for a moment at the door. “I hope you learned something from this, Peter,” he said to his son, who remained silent on the far side of the room. “And Patty?”
She looked up from her task, her eyes still hard.
“Please don’t kill the dog.” Through the mask of anger, he saw the faintest glimmer of a smile. He blew her a kiss and left.
The garage was like a sauna, the unmoving air instantly bringing beads of sweat to Todd’s forehead. Even as the overhead door rumbled open, there was no relief, not the slightest trace of a breeze. It was on days like this that Todd wondered how he ever grew up without air conditioning.
As he backed down the driveway, he admired his landscaping efforts from the previous weekend. After three months of watching the house rise from its origins as a plot of dirt, and only four weeks after closing on the mortgage, the house was beginning to look like a home, like someone actually lived there. He half hoped that Patty and Peter would appear in the window to wave goodbye, but a glance back caught no evidence of a curtain parting.
Little Rocky Creek was turning out to be a terrific place to live. The neighbors all knew each other, and everyone seemed to be at the same stages of their lives: young professionals struggling to establish themselves, and every month barely scraping together the cash necessary for the mortgage payment on these, their starter homes. There were lots of kids in the neighborhood, no crime to speak of, and a strong community spirit that bonded everyone together.
Who’s that?
A boy, maybe twelve, thirteen years old, was crossing the street in his direction. The face looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it with any of the families in the neighborhood. But then, Todd didn’t know too many of the folks who lived up in the first section that was built. He was a good-looking kid, long and thin with disheveled blond hair, but there was something in the way he carried himself that made Todd think he was up to no good.
By the time Nathan saw the car approach, there was nothing he could do. His first instinct was to run and duck out of sight, but his last opportunity to do that without being seen came and went in the two seconds it took to consider the option. All he could do was try and blend in. He didn’t even alter his stride as he crossed the street, though he did change his course to head back toward the front part of the neighborhood. No sense showing this guy where he was going.
The Chevy approached from behind him on the left, slowing ever so slightly as it passed. Nathan smiled politely and waved.
Todd waved back. The kid looked normal enough, and he certainly wasn’t trying to run away. Just a tired kid on his way home from whatever a kid that age could be on his way home from at this hour of the morning. One thing was for sure, Todd thought: When Peter got to be that age, he was going to be kept on a tight leash.
As he accelerated toward the end of the street, Todd’s thoughts turned to the Reischmann proposal, and the details of how he was going to structure his presentation. He never even looked back in the mirror.
As soon as the Chevy was out of sight, Nathan made a right-angle turn and headed back for the woods, suppressing his urge to run. Once back in the comfort of shade and obscurity, he leaned his back against a tree and slumped to the ground, taking a minute or two to collect himself.
“That was stupid!” he declared in a whisper, banging the back of his head against the tree bark. “I never should have gone out in the open! What’ll I do if that guy recognized me?”
Just one more thing to worry about over which he had no control. He hated himself for making so many mistakes. In the past twenty-four hours, luck alone had pulled him through every challenge. One of these times, luck was going to look the other way, and he was going to have to engineer his own solution. His head told him that it was useless to worry about things he couldn’t change, but these were things that could get him thrown back in jail, or even killed. That was why you needed grown-ups, he figured, to help keep it all in perspective. That was why he was so lonely without one around.
He felt like he was stuck in quicksand. Everything he did to get himself out of this mess just got him in deeper and deeper. Killing was wrong, stealing was wrong, breaking and entering was wrong, yet he’d done all of them. These were things you went to hell for, yet he was planning to do most of them again.
And how could he stop? One way or the other, his future was sealed. Either he was going to get out of the country successfully, or he was going to spend a very long time in prison for doing what he’d already done, even though he’d had no real choice. How much worse could it be getting caught doing more of the same?
As these thoughts ricocheted through his brain, energy drained from his body. He needed sleep, and the bright
er outlook that rest always brought. With an enormous effort, he gathered himself to his feet and embarked on the last two hundred yards of the night’s journey.
Ten minutes later, he had gained entry to 4120 through a ground-level basement window, made his way to the master bedroom, stripped down to his borrowed undershorts, and fallen fast asleep.
Chapter 18
For Enrique, the biggest surprise of all was his continued surprise at Denise’s ability to suck him into her crises. All night long, through the endless hours of rehearsal and hand-holding, the single thought that propelled him through the agony was that of the sleep that would be his reward after the limo finally picked up Denise to take her to the studio.
Then, somehow, he found himself with her in the limousine, and now in the wings just off-camera, waiting for her satellite interview to begin.
He had to hand it to her, though. In the presence of others, she handled herself like a pro. Calm and articulate, she carried herself as though she’d been born in a television studio. The difference between her real self and her stage self was near schizophrenic. She was born for this line of work, just as he seemed born to the task of helping her access the TV star that was hidden deep down inside a paranoid single mother who never came to grips with the depth of her natural talent, and who feared unemployment more than anything else in the world.
The ABC staffers in Washington went to great lengths to make Denise comfortable as she was prepped for the interview. Her job, it turned out, was to sit quietly while she was serviced. Makeup was applied by a professional artist in a very comfortable, if Spartan, dressing room equipped with all manner of junk food. It occurred to her that a doctor would have a field day bringing the blood sugar and caffeine levels of television people under control. The issue of her hair had been settled by the hairstylist, who told her that ponytails on black women made them look hard and unattractive. Under different circumstances, Denise might have taken offense, but she found that the prospect of facing millions of people made her extraordinarily receptive to suggestions. With far greater speed and efficiency than she had ever experienced in a hair salon, her “do” was transformed into a much more stylish, professional bob. Enrique seemed relieved when he saw it for the first time.
Nathan’s Run Page 15
