Nathan’s Run

by John Gilstrap

  Harry’s eyes now bore directly through the lieutenant’s forehead. “I can’t dictate what you’ll believe, sir, but I have in fact done it all by the book.”

  Warren grew quiet again and drew in a deep breath through his nose. “I gather, then, from your responses that you think cheating is wrong?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Even when the rewards are great? Even when it makes the difference between getting into the Academy and washing out?”

  “I was raised right, Lieutenant Michaels. I was always taught that if you can’t get what you want by working for it, then you shouldn’t have it at all.” He seemed to grow taller with pride as he made his response.

  “Why, then, do you have a lesser standard for the collection of evidence?” As he spoke, Warren’s eyes narrowed and he leaned all the way forward until his chest was pressed against his desk.

  Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then he got it. His shoulders sagged visibly, as though deflated.

  Warren didn’t need a verbal response; the body language said what he wanted to hear. “You probably thought I was going to yell at you this afternoon for making a fool of yourself on the radio yesterday, didn’t you?”

  Harry nodded. His demeanor was suddenly that of a schoolboy in the principal’s office.

  “Well, take heart, Thompkins,” Warren went on. “This is America, and it’s your absolute, unalienable right to make a fool of yourself anytime you want, though next time I’d appreciate it if you’d go it alone, and leave the department out of it.

  “The reason we’re having this little chat, Patrolman, is because you cheated yesterday, and you got caught. There is a right way and a wrong way to obtain evidence, and your actions tell me that you’re well aware that the right way almost always takes longer. You see this?” He held up the personnel folder.

  “Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled. “That’s my jacket.”

  “That’s right. And it’s your career. It’s the reason you’re not out on the street looking for a job. You’ve had a long string of successes, Harry, and one huge fuckup.”

  Harry was startled to hear the lieutenant use his first name.

  “I’ll cut to the chase. This department has a skewed memory. Fact is, one ‘oh shit’ wipes out a lifetime of (atta boys: You’ve had your oh shit, Harry. One more and I won’t be able to run interference for you, do you understand?” Warren’s phone rang.

  “Yes, se Harry responded, wondering what had happened to the shouting, and how he could be made to feel this badly about himself without it.

  As the phone rang a second time, Warren put his hand on it. “Next time I see your name in writing, I want it to be on a commendation or on the committee’s recommendation for the next detective’s slot, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Harry braved a smile, which Warren returned.

  The phone rang a fourth time. “Now get out of here and go to work. And don’t ask Petrelli or the County Executive for any favors for a while:’

  Harry exited and closed the door. The others were right, he concluded. Michaels was one of the good guys. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what kind of chewing out the big man himself had received after shooting his reflection in that mirror.

  Michaels took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time, cradling his flip-phone on his shoulder as he fitted his weapon into its holster. He could hear his heart racing. A few seconds passed, then Jed answered on the third ring.

  “Nicholson residence, Detective Sergeant Hackner.”

  “Jed, Warren. They’ve found the car in Pennsylvania, just north of Harrisburg. I’m on my way up there now.”

  “Great,” Jed replied, amused by the sounds of exertion in his boss’s voice. “I’ll cover things here.”

  Chapter 22

  Stephanie Buckman was running out of important-looking tasks to consume time. The big clock in the main corridor of the courthouse read 3:40, nearly two hours past the scheduled time for the hearing. Petrelli never showed up, and Stephanie knew from experience that his absence meant that she was stuck with a loser. Fuming as she paced the corridor, she mentally inventoried her bloated caseload. With thirty-three felonies and God only knew how many miscellaneous other matters pending, she had zero tolerance for tilting at Petrelli’s windmills. To make matters worse, her high-priced opponents from Omega Broadcasting sat smugly on the other side of the corridor, engrossed in quiet conversation, showing no signs at all of stress. But then, she guessed she’d be calm, too, if she were hauling down $250 an hour just for the wait. Finally, at ten minutes to four, word came that Judge Verone was ready to begin.

  First appointed to the bench in 1955, Judge Clarence 0. Verone appeared old enough to be an original signer of the Constitution. He was notorious for running hours behind schedule, and forever refusing to explain the reasons for the delays. Theories abounded, but the simple truth was that his was an appointment for life, and he could be as punctual as he liked. That his whims destroyed the carefully balanced schedules of countless attorneys was irrelevant. “When you get your own courtroom,” he would tell his critics, “you have my permission to start on time.”

  Now approaching his eightieth birthday, Judge Verone looked cadaverous, his dark eyes and sunken cheeks creating a visage of evil that had served well over the years to intimidate the crap out of many courtroom guests. As he climbed onto the dais, he had to pause for a moment to allow his arthritic knees to absorb the strain. The courtroom remained silent, all parties on their feet, secretly wondering how much longer the old codger could continue.

  For all of his physical frailties, Judge Verone’s knowledge of the law was formidable. A fierce victim’s advocate, he had sent more than his share of capital felons to await their turn in Greensville’s electric chair. A staunch proponent of individual responsibility, he had watched countless plaintiffs and their attorneys limp from his courtroom with their wallets empty and their tails between their legs. The assignment of Judge Verone to the People’s petition to access Omega Broadcasting’s telephone records no doubt accounted for Petrelli’s conspicuous absence.

  When the introductions were taken care of and the opening formalities completed, Judge Verone turned to Stephanie Buckman.

  “Miss Buckman, I see you’re here alone,” he rasped, intentionally avoiding the term ‘Ms.’, which in his view represented a concession to overly sensitive activists. “I was expecting to see Mr. Petrelli here with you.”

  Stephanie smiled uncomfortably. “Frankly, Your Honor, so was I. But I’m prepared to proceed without him.”

  Verone returned the smile briefly, then made it disappear. “I’m not so sure you are, Miss Buckman,” he said. “I’ve read your petition, and I am prepared to rule it out of order unless you can cough up a compelling reason to violate the privacy of hundreds of innocent people so you can go on a fishing trip for one caller.”

  Stephanie remained standing while the attorneys on the other side of the aisle lowered themselves into their chairs. She could feel their mocking smiles as she gathered her thoughts. She opened her portfolio, glanced at her notes, and began.

  “Your Honor, a convicted felon and a confessed killer is running free today, following a daring and bloody escape from the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center. We have within our reach the mechanism to bring him back into custody. By allowing access to Omega Broadcasting’s telephone records, you allow us to track this young man down and put him back where he belongs. The People don’t want to violate anyone’s privacy, Your Honor, but sometimes, the common good must prevail.”

  “Is that all?” Verone asked.

  “Well, no, Your Honor:’ Stephanie said, pulling the lengthy petition out of her brief case. “In our petition, we cite several precedents which I’d be happy to review with you.”

  Verone held up a skeletal hand to cut her off. “No, Miss Buckman, that won’t be necessary. Appearances notwithstanding, I’m still young enough to read what is submitted to this court.” He pivoted his hea
d to the defense table. “Mr. Morin,” he said to a gleaming attorney in a Brooks Brothers suit, “I presume that you have a slightly different take on this matter?”

  Morin buttoned his suit jacket as he stood. “Yes, Your Honor, we do indeed,” he said. In flawless and flowery prose, he recounted the incalculable harm that would be inflicted on the First Amendment rights of all citizens were the plaintiff’s requests to be granted. After enduring three minutes of breathless oratory, Verone yawned widely and loudly, causing Morin to stop in mid-sentence.

  “Do you have any information to present to me here that is not already played out in your written response?” Verone asked, taking advantage of the brief silence.

  Morin smiled coyly, as though he had been waiting for this opportunity. “Yes, sir, Your Honor. In addition to all of the arguments thus far presented, the defendant feels that the entire issue is moot, due to events of this morning, in which the information sought by the People’s petition was already provided by alternative means.”

  Stephanie’s mouth dropped. She hadn’t been back to the office since nine o’clock that morning, and no one had told her anything about alternative means. What the hell kind of game was Petrelli trying to play, anyway?

  “I have no idea what counsel is talking about,” she said in reply to the judge’s inquisitive look.

  Verone’s gaze returned to Morin. “Enlighten us all, Mr. Morin, please,” he said.

  Morin told of the Nicholsons’ return from vacation, and of their discoveries upon their arrival home. “Several points are proven here, Your Hohor,” Morin concluded. “First, that good police work does not have to involve civil rights violations, and second, that the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office is wasting a lot of people’s valuable time—and my client’s valuable money—just to win a few votes.”

  “That last comment was uncalled for, Your Honor,” Stephanie objected.

  “On the contrary, Miss Buckman, I believe that it is overdue,” Verone shot back. “I think we all know what’s going on here. Your boss is taking a bath on this case, and he’ll try anything to win, including leaving you out to dry all alone with this turkey of a petition. Miss Buckman, I want you to go back to your office and tell Mr. Petrelli that there is no provision in the Constitution whereby it can be suspended to support the political aspirations of prosecutors. Tell him if he tries a stunt like this again, I’ll throw his butt in jail for contempt. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stephanie said with a smile. She could just see herself saying those things to Petrelli. God, what she would give to do it and still have a job.

  “Petition denied?’ The gavel sounded like a pistol shot.

  The gun made Nathan feel safer. The heft of it in his hands, the press of it against the small of his back gave him the sense that the odds were more even. Like The Bitch had said, it was dangerous for a kid his age to be wandering around alone at night. If some bad guy chose him as his prey, Nathan would be ready.

  He saw in a Western once how this cowboy had developed a reputation as a killer, and even though he tried to hang up his guns and get on with his life, the bad guys wouldn’t let him. People felt compelled to prove themselves against his reputation. Well, Nathan was a famous killer now. He had told everybody that it was an accident, but maybe they wouldn’t believe him. Maybe somebody would want to prove themselves against him.

  Yeah, he’d be ready, all right. He’d made up his mind to take the gun with him. Like the clothes he’d borrowed from the Nicholsons, this gun would somehow be returned once he was across the border in Canada.

  The Honda in the garage posed a bit of a problem. It had a standard transmission, and he remembered from the fun farm how tricky they could be. In fact, the hardest he’d ever seen his grandfather laugh was the first day Nathan had gotten the old Ford to move, jerking and jolting across the field, spewing gravel everywhere. He just prayed that he still remembered how to do it.

  The laundry was finished now, and he’d already cleaned the place up. He had another note to write, but that wouldn’t take long. With three hours to go till dark, he had nothing left to do but wait. The waiting drove him nuts. For two days now, he’d been stuck inside, unable to do anything but wait and worry.

  After a while, boredom began to wear on you, making your mind play tricks. Boredom made you hear things that weren’t there, and think things that weren’t right. Sleeping was about the only activity that made real sense, but he was way too keyed up for that. Besides, he’d slept like a log that morning.

  The digital clock on the VCR switched to 6:00 and he thumbed the POWER button on the wimpy little six-button remote. You couldn’t even punch in the channel you wanted; you had to go through the numbers one at a time. He flopped backwards onto the couch but bounced back to his feet when the pistol in his waistband objected. He drew it out and lay back down, resting the gun on his chest.

  Nathan was the lead story on the news again. They were again showing the grainy picture of him in his bloody coveralls. They cut to a picture of the BMW before Nathan could pick up on what the announcer was saying.

  “.. believe they have located the vehicle used in day two of Nathan Bailey’s daring escape attempt from the Juvenile Detention Center in Brookfield, Virginia. According to police sources, a BMW sportscar matching the description of the vehicle taken from the residence where the young man spent the night last night was recovered in a church parking lot in Jenkins Township, Pennsylvania, about thirty miles north of Harrisburg. For the details, we go to…”

  He turned it off. This wasn’t possible. In just a few hours, the cops had undone a two-day head start, and Nathan still had hundreds of miles to go. His mind raced for a solution, for a way to get ahead of them again.

  Think, he told himself. There’s a way. There’s got to be a way.

  He rolled back up to a sitting position, his bare feet flat on the floor. He needed to take a look at where he was. What could they know? They knew he was somewhere around the town, but they couldn’t know where. They’d look for him in the woods, and they’d talk to people, showing his picture around. Could that hurt him?

  Oh, shit! The guy in the car! Damn! Damndamndamndamn! Sure as hell, they’d made eye contact. When the guy heard the news, he’d remember. Nathan suddenly hated himself for taking stupid chances. He’d traded everything for a couple of extra minutes of rest. He was an idiot! A fool! He was thinking like a goddamn kid, and now they had caught up with him! They were going to take him back there, and they were going to try him for murder and they were going to convict him and they were going to send him away for the rest of his life and it was all his own doing! Goddammit!

  A wave of despair overcame Nathan with such force that it took his breath away. Despite his thinking and his planning, despite his prayers and all the work he’d put into laying out his routes, it had all come down to stupidity and luck. He realized now that he’d been stupid even to entertain the notion of getting away.

  And luck. Hell, he’d been leaning on luck for years. He clearly saw for the first time that the hope he’d been foolish enough to hold on to since the day his father was killed had only been fueled by luck. Real life had nothing to do with it. Everyone and everything had abandoned him. God let him have a few good years just so he could know how awful the future would be. That was God’s little joke. Ha, ha, let’s all get a good laugh at Nathan! Look at that poor son of a bitch! He actually thinks there’s such thing as good fortune! He actually believes that nothing bad can happen to people who are good! Ha, ha, ha! Great joke!

  No matter how dark the days, there had always been a few scattered rays of sunlight in his soul. Now, suddenly, even that comfort was gone. He had the sensation that he was in a dark room without any doors. He was so alone.

  All of the monsters he’d been led to believe never existed were alive now and raging inside of him. As a toddler, they’d had the decency to stay in his closet or under his bed, but now, as his future closed on him like a door, they all ca
me out to torture his mind. Soon the cops would be on him, and they would send him back to that place—suddenly the words were too awful to think—and he’d have nowhere left to hide. The monsters would come and consume him. He would become one of those animals who had terrorized him for nine months in the JDC, alive on the outside, but dead in his heart.

  His darkened soul guided his eyes down to the gun in his hands. A terror like he’d never known gripped his heart as he realized that he in fact had ultimate control over his destiny. He lifted the pistol up to eye level and stared down the barrel. Close up, it was like staring down a manhole. The bullets were huge.

  Death was a kind of freedom, wasn’t it? And it’s what everyone wanted. Why waste all that electricity in some prison when he could take care of it right here, in less time than it took to blink an eye? No more chases, no more loneliness, no more beatings.

  He could be with his dad again, and live with the angels. He could meet his mother. He smiled at the thought of seeing in person the face he’d learned to love from a picture. He could almost feel the warmth of her hug, smell her heavenly perfume. His dad would smile at him again, and then they would all walk off among the clouds to be a family again.

  Nathan’s lip trembled, and a single tear dripped from his chin as he pulled the hammer all the way back and brought the muzzle of the big gun up to his head, just in front of his right ear. A little pressure, and it would all be over. He’d be free. He’d be happy. One… two…

  Greg Preminger was nearly bursting with pride. His discovery of the BMW had been a feat of pure police work that had already awarded him a spot on the evening news—even the networks were mentioning him by name. This was the kind of thing that led to recognition and promotions. As he traveled from door to door searching for witnesses, he allowed himself to fantasize about finding the boy as well.

  Problem was, it was still early; a lot of people weren’t home from work yet. His current beat was Little Rocky Trail, where only three of the last twenty-two houses had been occupied by anyone, and none of those had seen a thing, though every single person had heard of the Bailey case. One woman shocked him by telling him he should be ashamed of himself for making things more difficult for “that poor little boy.”