“No, it’s a trick,” he declared. “You’re going to kill me. Everybody’s trying to kill me.”
He thumbed back the hammer on the Magnum.
“Sniper One to Command, I read this situation as critical. The target is acquired. I have a perfect shot. Do I have the green light?”
Even as he asked the question, Steadman ran some calculations through his head on the damage this much bullet would do to so little a boy. The results were horrifying.
“Nathan, listen to me,” Michaels said gently, looking past the gaping muzzle of the pistol into the eyes of the boy holding it. “Look at me. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, son.” He took a step forward. “This is over, Nathan. You’ve seen too much killing. Let’s let it end here.” Three more steps, and he was only ten feet away.
“You’ve got to trust somebody, Nathan. Start with me.”
Trust me. How many times had he heard that? Trust Uncle Mark. Trust the social worker. Trust the judge. Trust the supervisor. Now trust the cop.
But this cop had friendly eyes. And a smile. Nathan remembered his face from television, the one in the tennis shirt.
Staring past the heavy pistol, Nathan wanted desperately to shoot; to be shot; to end it all. But even as his finger tightened on the trigger, he knew he wouldn’t do it. Maybe if Michaels had been one of the assholes from the night before, but not this guy. Not the cop with the friendly eyes.
“Let’s be friends,” Warren said, moving a step closer.
And that was it. Nathan’s lip started to quiver as he lowered the gun and let it drop to the pavement.
“I don’t have any friends,” Nathan said pitifully, and he sank to his knees. His shoulders slumped and his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, and his features dissolved into those of a sad little boy who needed to be held. As he sobbed there on the sidewalk, trying to hide behind hands pressed to his eyes, his whole body heaved at the effort of it all. There was movement among the line of cops, but no one seemed to know what to do next.
Warren watched awkwardly for just a moment; then, smoothly and slowly, with the grace of one who had done it many times before, he moved to the boy and sat down next to him on the sidewalk. Self-consciously at first, but then with the warmth and tenderness of a grieving father, he drew Nathan close, his hand disappearing into the grimy tangle of the boy’s hair.
Amidst the blood and filth, Nathan caught the faintest aroma of sweaty aftershave, the smell of strength. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be transported back to sunnier times.
“It’s over now, son,” _Warren said, his voice catching in his throat. “No one can hurt you now.” As he pulled Nathan closer still, he rocked him gently back and forth. “It’s okay,” he whispered.
For the longest time, they just sat there together on the sidewalk and cried like babies on national television.
Chapter 39
Alone in the quiet studio, Denise watched in silence, her fingers pressed tightly to her lips, her mascara wrecked. Enrique said something in her earphones about dead air, but she couldn’t make any words come out. As the television zoomed in on Nathan and the plainclothes cop, a tearful smile bloomed behind her hand. Finally, it was over.
“Way to go, Nathan,” she said into the microphone as she raised her Diet Coke to the TV. “Here’s to being a kid again.”
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1.1 - annotation, quotation marks, fixing the book structure, paper book info, long dashes (Namenlos).
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Nathan’s Run Page 32
