Nathan’s Run

by John Gilstrap

  He knew he’d get the break he needed soon. Now he was ready for it.

  Michaels left the Nicholsons’ house in a rush to get back to the station in time to pass along to Patrolman Thompkins the County Executive’s best wishes, and to excavate a new asshole in the young officer’s butt. Whether or not Thompkins had any kind of a career left would depend largely on how he took his ass-kicking. If he copped an attitude, he was done.

  As Warren pulled out of the driveway, reporters flocked to his car, shouting questions that he pretended not to hear. They tried to block his progress by pressing against the vehicle, a tactic they often used, on the assumption that their prey would stop to avoid the risk of running someone over. Obviously, they didn’t know Warren well enough. At this stage of this investigation, he’d have welcomed the opportunity to flatten a reporter, though it proved unnecessary. He just kept rolling along at a snail’s pace, with the windows rolled up, until they finally chose to save their feet and stepped out of the way.

  Once on the road, Warren tuned his car radio to NewsTalk 990 for The Bitch. He wondered if Nathan would be brazen enough to call a second time. As soon as the digital display on the radio locked onto 990, he heard the boy’s voice. He noted with vicarious pleasure that a day of freedom had greatly lifted Nathan’s spirits. The boy was gleefully telling the story of how he had evaded a roadblock the night before, though he was careful not to give the location. Smart kid, Warren thought, but if you keep talking, you’re going to tell me something that I can use.

  And when that moment came, Warren admitted, he was going to have to push himself hard to put the information to use. Among the many feelings he had dissected and analyzed last night on the front porch was one that he had not yet had to confront in a meaningful way. Deep in his heart, Warren hoped Nathan would get away. Whatever doubts he had harbored on the issue were washed away by his conversation with Aces. That talk in the empty classroom of the JDC reinforced in Warren’s mind two undeniable truths: First, the juvenile court system created criminals, it did not reform them, and second, Nathan was not a danger to society.

  Without a doubt, he was a killer—he had said so himself. But he was no murderer.

  “If you get away, what are you going to do?” asked Nadine from Pleasantville, New Jersey.

  Nathan used his thumb to pick the dirt from under a toenail as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he answered at length, as honestly as he could. “I guess I’ll just start over.”

  “But how can you do that?” Nadine pushed. “You’re a celebrity now. Everyone knows what you look like. Everyone’s going to be watching for you.”

  It was a very good point, Nathan thought, but another one on which he couldn’t afford to dwell. “If I’m such a celebrity, and if people want to help, maybe they’ll just look the other way for a while.” And not shoot their mouths off like the Nicholsons, he didn’t say.

  “Thank you, Nadine,” The Bitch said, moving on. “Frank from Coronado, California, you’re on the air with The Bitch and Nathan the Kid.”

  “Hi, Bitch. Hi, Nathan,” Frank said. “Great show today:’ “Thank you,” Denise said.

  “Nathan, yesterday you told us that your mom died when you were a baby and that you were raised by your dad, but then you wouldn’t talk about him. What happened to him?”

  Nathan took a deep breath before he answered. Thinking about these things was so much harder yesterday. Today, he felt calm, collected, like he could talk without breaking down in tears. “He was killed in a car wreck when I was ten,” he answered clearly.

  “What happened?”

  “You mean in the car wreck?”

  “Yeah. I mean, did he hit a tree, another car or what?”

  “Frank, I’m ashamed of you,” Denise scolded. “Don’t you think the kid has enough on his mind without dredging up more bad memories?” She said it because it was the appropriate thing to say. In her heart, she hoped he’d answer.

  “That’s okay,” Nathan said agreeably, fulfilling Denise’s wish. “I don’t mind. Not today, anyway. He was crossing some railroad tracks—not the kind with lights and gates and stuff, but the unmarked kind—when he got hit by the train. The doctor told me he was killed right away.”

  “So how did you find out?” Frank persisted. “Did the police come to your door or what?” This line of questioning made Denise nervous. Her hand remained poised over the dump button in case she had to get rid of Frank in a hurry.

  “No,” Nathan explained, “I was staying over at my best friend Jacob Protsky’s house that night. They’re our next-door neighbors. I guess the police told them, and then Jacob’s dad told me. It was pretty sad.” Like so many of the images that played on the movie screen of his mind, this one was as vivid as it could be. They waited until he awoke that morning to break the news, and he remembered how Mr. Protsky cried harder than he did. He remembered that he stayed with the Protskys through the funeral, until Uncle Mark finally sobered up enough to come pick him up and take him to his hive.

  You remember to give us a call if you need anything, Nathan remembered Mrs. Protsky telling him as she gave him a hug, big tears balanced on her lids.

  Then the memories turned bitter as he remembered calling her from a pay phone after the first belt-licking, begging her to take him back as blood trickled down the back of his legs under his jeans. He remembered how cold and flat her voice was as she ordered him to stop calling them. You have a new life now, Nathan, she had said. We can’t be a part of it anymore.

  “You also implied yesterday that you were abused…”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Nathan said matter-of-factly.

  “Good,” Denise said, stabbing the dump button. “Neither do I. Sometimes people just don’t know when to quit. I think Frank was one of those people.”

  “My dad was the nicest guy in the world,” Nathan announced. “I’m sure he was, honey,” Denise said soothingly. “And the reason I’m sure is because I think he raised a pretty nice son.” “Thanks,” Nathan said warmly, “but there’s lots of folks who don’t think much of me at all.”

  “Well, what do they know?”

  Nathan smiled and stretched his back. “Um, ma’am? I mean B-Bitch?”

  Denise laughed heartily at Nathan’s continued discomfort with her name. “Tell you what, Nathan,” she said. “Because we’re such buddies now, and I want to make you as comfortable as I can, I’m gonna let you call me Denise, okay?”

  Nathan sighed audibly, genuinely relieved. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Sure. But to my other listeners, I warn you. Unless you’re a runaway with as cute a voice as Nathan’s, don’t you go trying to call me by my real name. Now, sweetie, what can I do for you?”

  “If I ask you a question, will you promise to give me an honest answer?”

  Denise shot a look to Enrique, who just shrugged, as usual. “Sure,” she said.

  “Even if you think your honest answer would make me feel bad?”

  “Okay.”

  Nathan took another deep breath. The answer to the question he was about to ask was important to him, but he didn’t know why. He was far from certain that he even wanted to hear it. Pushing his doubts aside, he asked, “I know that if I was just some kid, you’d never put me on the radio. But if I did get through, would you still like me, even if I didn’t make your ratings go up?”

  Denise thought for a moment before answering, then went to commercials so she could think some more. When they came back, she still wasn’t ready, but she owed him an answer.

  “Nathan, I can’t deny that your calls have been good to my show. For example, I know that I’d have never been invited on Good Morning America if it weren’t for your phone call. You remember yourself that I didn’t believe a word you said at the beginning of yesterday’s call. But I’ve gotta tell you, there is something about your voice and your personality that is really very charming, and your situation is truly heart-wrenching. As a mother, I want to help
you, just as most of our listeners would come to your aid however possible. So, yes, Nathan, I think I can honestly say that I would like you even if you made our ratings go down. And if you knew me better, you’d know that that’s a whole lot of liking.”

  Her answer made Nathan smile; made him feel warm in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It had been two years since anyone had been kind to him, two years since anyone had clapped him on the back or given him a hug. For the first ten years of his life, he’d never had to worry about being tough or being brave, and the thought of fighting other people for the very essentials of life-food and rest or even a place to sit unmolested—had never entered his mind for even an instant. Ever since that train had sheared away everything that was good and kind, Nathan’s life had been one continuous fight, first with Uncle Mark, then with the assholes at the JDC, and now with hundreds of cops. The stakes were always the same, always his very survival. He longed for the times when his biggest worries centered on where he’d be assigned on the soccer field or whether or not he’d get an A on his spelling test.

  Nathan refused to believe that those times were gone forever. If he worked hard, told the truth, and stayed lucky, he’d get another chance. To hear someone as hardassed as The Bitch say something nice bolstered his faith in himself, but more importantly, renewed his faith in other people. They weren’t all cops and lawyers and judges and supervisors. There were still people out there who were willing to listen. Not everyone made their living by calling you a liar, or gaveling you out of order when you tried to tell the truth. And if The Bitch could think nice things about him, and believe him, then maybe other people could do that, too. Even if he got caught, at least maybe now people would pay attention to what he had to say.

  “Are you still there?” Denise prodded.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” Nathan paused again, gathering his strength to execute the plan that had flashed through his mind just an instant before. “I was just thinking about something. Do you think it would be all right if I asked the people listening to tell their friends that I’m really not a bad kid? And that I might need help? Maybe the news people could stop showing my picture all the time, so that I might be able to start over without everyone recognizing me?”

  As Denise replied, her tone was all mother. “Honestly, Nathan, I think it’s too late for that. You’re already a news item, and I think you’re destined to remain that way until this thing is resolved. As far as people are concerned, they’ve already made up their minds about you, good or bad, but what they think really doesn’t matter. What matters to everyone, Nathan, is your safety. Whether they think you’re a good guy or a bad guy, I don’t think anyone wants harm to come to you.

  “What worries me,” Denise continued, leaning on the words, “is the thought of you driving cars and running roadblocks, and just being out alone at night. You’re in very real danger every minute you’re on the run. Sometimes I think the safest thing for you to do would be to turn yourself back in, and let the justice system work for you.”

  “The justice system got me into this,” Nathan snorted.

  “It works for an awful lot of people.”

  “Not for kids. Not for me.”

  “Listen, Nathan…”

  “I can’t go back, Denise,” Nathan said with finality. “I won’t go back. Not if they don’t catch me first. You don’t know what it’s like to be in a concrete box. You don’t know how it feels to be bent over a chair and held down by five people bigger than you while some asshole pulls down your pants in front of everybody and rams a broom handle up your butt…”

  “Oh, my God,” Denise gasped.

  “…or how it makes you feel when the supervisor laughs at you when you report it, or how the other residents beat the crap out of you for squealing on them.” Nathan was shouting now. “I killed Ricky Harris because he was trying to kill me! If I go back, somebody else is going to try again, and if I fight back and win, they’ll call me the murderer. That’s the way the system works, Denise. The grown-ups are always right, and the kids are always wrong, and no matter what you say, you lose. Don’t tell me I’ve got to go back there, because I won’t do it!”

  Nathan slammed the phone down on its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again. And again, knocking the lamp off the end table and onto the floor. He stood there in the middle of a strange living room breathing heavily, his hands trembling. Suddenly he was alone. And it was quiet, so terribly quiet that he could hear his heart beating. In the silence, he could taste his anger and his shame and his sorrow. He was ready for a new dealer, because whoever was in charge of this game kept handing him piss-poor cards. But most of all, he felt terribly, terribly lonely.

  Nathan desperately needed to do violence to something. He needed something to punch or to throw or to kick, but he was barehanded, barefooted, and in the home of a stranger whom he had no cause to harm. Like a caged animal, he paced around the living room twice, finally stopping dead-center in the middle. Clenching his fists at his side, he raised his face to the ceiling and shouted loudly enough to crack the plaster.

  “SHIT!!”

  Police Officer Greg Preminger thanked Sister Elizabeth for her assistance and walked back up the stairs toward the sanctuary. Greg’s daughter would be starting first grade in the fall, and he wanted to make sure that she was registered for the proper CCD classes—the Catholic version of Sunday school. A native of Jenkins Township, Greg had been going to Saint Sebastian’s his entire life. It was hard to believe that ten years had passed since Sister Elizabeth had taught him English during his senior year at Paul VI High School.

  Because this mission was technically a personal one and he was still on duty, Greg was in a hurry to get back to his squad car before he missed a call. The dispatcher was carrying him 10-7, which usually implied a bathroom stop, but he’d been out of the vehicle for nearly fifteen minutes. It wouldn’t be long before they started to check up on him. He took the stairs two at a time.

  As he got to his car, he noticed a fire engine red BMW convertible parked way off in the back of the parking lot. Interesting that he hadn’t seen it on his way in. Once back in the driver’s seat, he picked up the microphone and marked 10-8, back in service, then drove across the lot to check out the vehicle. Nobody had said anything at roll call that morning about a stolen BMW, and normally cars of that value got specific mention by the sergeant. There was nothing on his hot sheet, either.

  He decided to let it go, but when he got back to the main road, he had a change of heart. It was just a damned suspicious way to park a good car. He returned to the Beemer and called in the license number, just in case.

  Patrolman Thompkins was waiting in Michaels’s office when Warren Michaels arrived, and jumped to his feet at the sound of the opening door.

  “Sit,” commanded Warren, in exactly the same tone he would have used for a dog.

  Harry sat, his back perfectly straight, his butt barely on the seat. The man looked scared to death, and Warren had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. From the outside, there was no trace of a smile, only the glare that so many police officers had witnessed at one point or another in their careers. It was a look of disgust, of disapproval. No first offender ever knew if there was an undercurrent of anger, because so few had ever seen Lieutenant Michaels angry. He was one of the good ones. And if he was disappointed in you, then by God the entire department was disappointed in you.

  In Warren’s mind, the ass-chewings for which he had become so well known were never ass-chewings at all. He never raised his voice—well, rarely—and it was always his intent to end sessions such as this on a positive note. When he took the time to pencil these meetings onto his calendar, he always used the term “attitude adjustment session.”

  Warren leaned way back in his squeaky vinyl chair and folded his hands across his chest, his elbows perched on the armrests. As he glared at Thompkins, the young officer made a valiant attempt for about five seconds to hold his own, but quickly
looked down to a spot on the lieutenant’s desk. Warren let him stew in the silence for a full minute before he said anything.

  “So, you’re our radio star, eh, Thompkins?” he asked evenly.

  Harry’s head snapped up, and his eyes locked on to Warren. He was ready to take what was coming to him like a man. “Yes, sir,” he said firmly.

  “Your career’s important to you, isn’t it, Thompkins?” Warren leaned forward and made quite a show of opening the other man’s personnel file while he spoke.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “I notice from your file here that you seem to finish first in everything that you do. That’s quite an accomplishment. You should be proud.”

  Harry shifted in his seat. The course of the conversation made him uneasy. He was expecting to get yelled at, not complimented. “I try, sir?’ he said.

  “Sergeant Hackner told me a few weeks ago that you have your heart set on a gold shield?’ Warren went on. “Is that important to you as well?”

  Uh-oh, here it comes, Harry thought. “Yes, sir, that’s very important. You might say that’s my career ambition.”

  Michaels pondered the response for a long moment, gauging sincerity. “Did you cheat on your entrance exam into the Academy?”

  “No, sir!” Harry’s response was instant and unequivocal.

  “How about all the other tests and programs you’ve been involved with since you got your badge. How many of them have you cheated on?”

  Harry’s control of his anger was slipping. “None at all, Lieutenant Michaels. And, frankly, sir, I resent…”

  “Shut up, Patrolman Thompkins, before you say something you’ll regret. Resent things on your own time. On mine, I’ll thank you to answer my questions. Do we understand each other?”

  Harry’s jaw locked tightly. “Yes, sir?’ he hissed.

  “So you expect nee to believe that you’ve performed the way you have thus far in your career by working hard and following the rules?” Michaels continued. “No cheating, no shortcuts?”