Nathan's Run (1996)

by John Gilstrap

  He also needed better shelter and proper clothes. He needed food. Every house within his sight could offer him exactly what he needed, yet he was locked out of those houses just as tightly as he was locked out of every kindness and every bit of normalcy he had ever known.

  Wait a minute. Just because the doors and windows were locked didn't mean they couldn't be entered. An idea began to take shape.

  Soaked from sweat and dew, Nathan pressed his belly against the mulch, and elbow-crawled along the narrow tunnel between the hedge and the side of the house to get a better view of the street. A branch snagged his ear and broke off, carving a gouge out of his flesh. Sharp, bright pain brought tears to his eyes. He brushed them away with a filthy hand. Stopping long enough to blink his vision clear, he inched forward a little more.

  By pivoting his head, he could see the length of the block. It was a nice neighborhood, not unlike his own. Well-kept houses, all brightly lit, with well-kept lawns. The neighborhood was crawling with people. They talked in their yards. They played badminton-in the dark, for crying out loud. Kids down the block a little ways had punks in their hands, using the glowing tips to pretend they were smoking cigarettes. And cars. Jesus, there were a lot of cars moving up and down the street. Nathan guessed they were filled with people coming home from the fireworks.

  One house, though, stood out from the others. The place directly across the street was neither well-lit nor well-kept. The grass was too long, the flowerbeds unmanicured. Only a porch light was on. A dozen or so newspapers, all rolled up and unread, lay scattered on the driveway. Nathan figured that the occupants must be on vacation.

  That meant that the house was empty, and that he could safely stay there, at least for tonight.

  He'd have to cross in the open, though, and if he tried that now, they'd catch him for sure. He told himself that he could be patient if he had to.

  He settled back into his tunnel to begin his wait, forcing his mind to think about anything but sleep.

  Chapter 4

  It was ten-forty now, and the media people who'd stationed themselves in front of the MC were clamoring for information. A knot of reporters had already blocked the front entrance, and more were arriving by the minute. The television people were particularly aggressive, shouting questions at anyone wearing a uniform. Of all journalistic deadlines, none . were less forgiving than the eleven o'clock news. Immediacy was television's single trump card over their print counterparts, and they would do whatever it took to lead their newscasts with the big story. Michaels knew from experience that this meant fabricating details from rumor and assumption if the available facts didn't seem juicy enough. When they became desperate, news agencies would merely report on the rumors reported by the other agencies. It was a crazy way to make a living, but Michaels respected the fact that reporters had a job to do. He was committed to getting them the information they needed in time for them to do a live report at eleven, if not before.

  The nameplate on the desk where Michaels sat read HAROLD P. JOHNSTONE, SUPERINTENDENT. The superintendent-warden, to Michaels-had cordially invited the police to use his office as a base of operations.

  Jed Hackner sat on the other side of the desk, briefing his boss on the latest details. At best, things still looked pretty sketchy. Michaels scanned through the two pages of handwritten briefing notes a third time, committing times and names to memory. "So, the kid's a car thief, right?"

  "Right."

  "Nothing like a murder charge to up the ante," Warren thought aloud. He turned the page. "Ricky Harris got a family?"

  "Not in the area. He's from Missouri. We've notified their state PD to make the notifications."

  "Uh-huh." Warren flipped the sheaf of papers over by their staple and started over. "There's no mention of the dogs," he commented without looking up. "What's their status?"

  Jed's uncomfortable silence drew Michaels's eyes from the papers. "Jed?"

  Hackner recrossed his legs and cleared his throat. "There's a problem with the dogs, Warren. It'll be another couple of hours before Peters can be here with the hounds. Seems he went downtown for the Fourth. I talked to him on his cellular about twenty minutes ago. He's hopelessly stuck in traffic. On a good day, he says he could be here in an hour and a half. With the traffic, he just doesn't know."

  The muscles in Michaels's jaw twitched. "Well, shit. When were you going to share that little tidbit with me? That's not the kind of thing to spring on me in front of the cameras."

  "I wasn't hiding it from you," Jed said sheepishly. "It just didn't make it onto the briefing sheets."

  Michaels rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then rested his forearms on the desk. He gave a wry chuckle and shook his head. "I hate talking to those vultures. Won't we look like a bunch of hayseeds? Yessirree," he mocked, affecting a hillbilly accent, "we got the best gol-durned K-9 team in th' state. Jest when we need 'em, they're on fucking vacation in the Nation's Capital!" The accent was gone. His volume increased. "God almighty, Jed, the kid's trail will only be fresh for so long! And they're predicting rain for tonight. If it rains, we might as well shoot the dogs, for all the help they'll be. Hell, right now I'm inclined to shoot 'em any- way."

  When Michaels finished his tirade, he stared at Hackner.

  "What do you want me to do, Warren? They're not my fucking dogs. We've been pushing for years for the Board to fund a K-9 team, but they won't do it. This is what happens when you try to pinch pennies."

  Michaels smiled, the anger gone. "Wonderful civics lesson, Sergeant Hackner. Can I quote you on camera?"

  Hackner smiled back. "Sure, why not? It's only a career."

  Michaels checked his watch. Ten forty-eight. Through the drawn venetian blinds the night glowed like noon in the glare of the television lights. Michaels stood. "Come on, Jed," he said. "Time to go feed the birdies."

  Chapter 5

  Twelve miles from Brookfield, in the farthest southwest corner of Braddock County, Mark Bailey sat Indian-style on his torn Naugahyde sofa, nursing the last three inches of his bottle of generic bourbon. The only light in the house emanated from the stove and the television. It seemed important that he remain in the dark, out of sight. He avoided windows. He didn't want to be seen, not tonight. He just wanted this dirty business with Nathan to be over and done with so he could get on with the rest of his life.

  Until forty-five minutes before, the bottle in his hands had served as his monument to conquering alcoholism. He had bought it four years before, on his twelve-month anniversary of sobriety. He had long since fallen off the wagon, of course, but until tonight, he could never bring himself to open that bottle. That would mean admitting failure, and Mark Bailey was nobody's failure.

  But Mark Bailey had done a terrible thing this night. Maybe he wasn't a failure, but he was certainly no one he could respect. For three weeks now, he had known that after tonight, self-respect would forever be pushed into his past.

  And what the hell, it was only a bottle of booze, for Chrissakes. Nothing more, nothing less. All that symbolism crap really didn't mean a thing.

  Events of the night notwithstanding, Mark had felt well under control, until the face of Harry Caruthers appeared on television for the teaser to the eleven o'clock news. "Murder at the Juvenile Detention Center. Details at eleven." Those nine words, delivered in just under five seconds, confirmed for Mark that it was all over; that he had been granted a new lease on life, albeit at the expense of his immortal soul.

  He was surprised at just how much that religion crap had been weighing on him recently. The word pictures painted by the nuns and priests of his past lived on in his mind, pictures of fire and torture and misery. Unspeakable pain for all eternity.

  That was the thought that sent him searching for his monument to sobriety.

  His first toast was to his dear departed brother, Steve. Old Steve-o. Mr. Perfect Life, Perfect Kid, Holier-Than-Fucking-Thou, Pain-in-the-Ass Steve-o. "Sorry it had to end this way, bro, but you didn't leave m
e much to work with."

  For Mark, the first priority had always been survival. Even as a child, adults and peers alike had pronounced him street smart. That meant he was a survivor. He'd dealt with every bit of adversity life had handed him, and moved on to conquer another day. That's what life was all about: getting knocked down, and pulling yourself back up again. When Social Services dumped Steve-o's hatchling on his doorstep, he'd first seen it as just one more turd on the shit pile that was his life. But then, eventually, he even turned that into opportunity. Like turning straw into gold.

  The longer Mark lived, the better he got at beating the odds. It was just that the price kept getting harder to pay.

  Now that this Nathan thing was done, though, and his blood was warmed by alcohol, Mark felt damned philosophical about it all. One day he'd go to hell, he supposed, but what the fuck.

  There's nothing you can do about it now, old sport. No sense dwelling on the past.

  As the opening credits for Action News at Eleven flashed across the screen, Mark finished the last of the bottle. If his timing was right, he'd pass out just after the report on Nathan was over.

  As always, Harry Caruthers was first with the lead story: "Law-enforcement officials are stunned this evening by the brutal murder of a staff member at the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center. Twenty-eight-year old Child Care Supervisor Richard W. Harris was found slain at around nine o'clock this evening by a fellow staff member. The suspected killer: a twelve-year-old boy who subsequently escaped from the facility, and is currently at large. John Ogilsvy is live in Brookfield with a report. John, what do we know about the details?"

  Mark Bailey's first thought was that the bourbon had mushed his brain. What he thought he had heard was simply unthinkable. Trying to blink his head clear, he slid onto the floor and scooted closer to the television, forcing himself to concentrate on every word.

  The screen changed to young John Ogilsvy, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and tie. The lighted facade of the Juvenile Detention Center served as his backdrop.

  "Well, Harry, the details at this moment are still rather sketchy, but as you can imagine, police and detention center personnel are scurrying like crazy to pull this case together. Sometime between seven and eight-thirty this evening, staff member Ricky Harris was stabbed repeatedly while making his rounds in the facility.

  "Mr. Harris's body was found by another staff member in a cell occupied by a twelve-year-old car thief named Nathan Bailey, of Braddock County." An institutional photo of Nathan, full-face and profile, dominated the left-hand side of the screen, while the other side displayed a smiling Ricky Harris.

  "All we know for sure is that Nathan Bailey has escaped, though it's safe to assume, I believe, that he is the primary suspect in the murder as well. Residents of the area are advised to double-check their locks this evening . . . "

  This was un-fucking-believable. "You son of a bitch," Mark hissed through clenched teeth. "SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!" He heaved the empty monument through the picture tube, instantly drenching the living room in darkness.

  How could this happen? Mark reeled, wishing distantly that he could drain the numbing alcohol from his veins. It was so simple, like shooting birds in a cage. How could Ricky have fucked it up so badly?

  Mark tried to stand, rising to all fours, but tumbled to his side like a fallen buffalo. There he lay, panting, cursing unintelligibly under his breath.

  "You shoulda let him do it, Nathan," he moaned. "Harder on both of us . . ." His brain clouded. "The guy they send next won't be as quick."

  His last coherent thought before slipping off into a stupor was that the street-smart Mark Bailey might not survive this one after all.

  Chapter 6

  High beams washed over Nathan's face, startling him awake. For a long moment, he was disoriented, unable to piece together the bright lights, the wetness, the smell of dirt, the sense of fear. The headlights blinded him as they came closer, only to pause in the driveway in front of him. The characteristic rumbling sound of a garage door opener followed next, with the headlights disappearing from view a moment later into the garage.

  A scant four feet to his left, separated only by single layers of plywood and vinyl siding, car doors opened and closed. Conversations continued uninterrupted. "Look, Chris," a woman's voice said, "isn't that sweet? Suzie's sound asleep. Can you carry her in while I unlock the door?" A male voice responded with a single syllable. More sounds of movement; another car door opening and closing. The male voice softly sang, "Shh, sweetheart, go back to sleep. Daddy's going to take you right to bed. Shhh." The garage door rumbled shut again.

  Through it all, Nathan lay perfectly still, half expecting to be yanked from his hiding place by his collar. As seconds passed, and then minutes, he allowed himself to relax. If they'd seen him, they'd have done something by now. He cursed himself for having drifted off.

  Three minutes later, the light on the garage door opener cycled off, once again flooding his hiding place with darkness. The street looked completely different now. Most of the houses were dark. No one moved about. The neighborhood was asleep. It was time for him to make his move.

  Using only his elbows for propulsion, Nathan snaked from behind the boxwood and onto the grass. Free of the leafy tunnel, he drew his feet under him and was instantly reminded of the beating they'd taken through the woods. Though his soles stung badly, the cool wetness of the grass was soothing.

  Nathan now had a full and unobstructed view of the street. Crouched like a cat, he looked around and calculated what needed to be done. The space that separated him from the shadows of the house across the street looked like the same distance as the fifty-yard dash he'd had to run in school. Fifty yards. Last time he tested out, he had covered the distance in 7.8 seconds, fastest in his class. That was no time at all.

  From his crouched position, he counted down in his head. On your mark . . . get set . . . GO!

  He covered the front yard in five quick strides, hit the street on his sixth step, and a well-camouflaged rock on his eighth. The rock hobbled him and made him stumble face-first onto the grass across the street.

  Beyond his aching right foot and a little road rash, he was unhurt. But Jesus, he had made a lot of noise!

  At that instant, an explosion of light blasted from the house he'd just left as the garage door once again rumbled upwards. Even as the door cleared the first two inches from the ground, Nathan could see the feet, legs, and ultimately the entire body of the man who lived there.

  Nathan nearly panicked. He was completely out in the open, easily twenty feet from the nearest shadow. With no real alternative, he resumed his crouch and froze in place. Sometimes the best place to hide is out in the open, his father had once told him.

  Nathan's eyes never moved from the man as he rolled a trash can out to the curb, followed by a container full of newspapers. Never once did the man even glance across the street. No sign of recognition at all. Once the man disappeared inside and the garage door started down again, Nathan dashed into the shadow cast by the house he hoped would be his home for the night.

  Thanks to the lessons of MacGyver, it took Nathan about ten seconds to break into the house. He chose as his point of entry the French doors on the main level in the rear. Using his elbow to break out a single pane of glass near the lock, he winced in anticipation of pain that never came. It wasn't even noisy, thanks to the lush carpeting on the other side. Nathan reached through the opening he had created and turned both the deadbolt and the knob.

  The door swung open into a darkened rec room, dominated by a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace on his right, and by a huge entertainment center on his left. In between skulked the shadowy outlines of various pieces of furniture. Nathan gently closed the French doors again. And locked them.

  Though his eyes were well-accustomed to the darkness, he moved cautiously, paranoid of jamming a bare toe into some unseen obstacle.

  This place is huge.

  The kitchen, with an
eat-in breakfast area, sprawled to his left beyond the entertainment center. Beyond that, and out of sight, were a living room, formal dining room and library, all on the first floor.

  A place like this ought to have an alarm system. The thought nudged his panic button just a little before he realized that he'd already been inside long enough that it would be too late to react. One way or another, it was a done deal, not worth worrying about tonight. Still, it was a good thought to keep in mind for the future.

  Nathan's first destination was the refrigerator. He was starving. He had to yank hard to get the door to open, but it was a wasted effort. The shelves were barren; no pizza, no leftovers, not even a carton of milk. From a compartment in the door, he pulled out a jar of sweet pickles.

  Then he froze. In the dim light of the refrigerator, he got his first good look at his hands. They were filthy, caked with dirt and grass stains. And blood. Lots and lots of blood. Ricky's blood.

  In an instant, his hunger disappeared, replaced with an urgent need to go to the bathroom. He found one in the main hall, across from the stairs, with exactly no time to spare. In the darkness, he purged his bowels with a single liquid blast.

  Finished, Nathan closed the door and flipped on the wall switch. With no windows in the bathroom, he could safely turn on a light. The image of the boy in the mirror frightened him. That boy looked sixty years old. His eyes were dark hollows, one of them severely swollen. His blond hair was brown with grime and matted to his head, pushed in every direction. He looked frail in the drooping coveralls, the shoulders of the garment hanging nearly halfway to his elbows. And the blood. He was soaked in it. When he moved, little chips of coagulated blood flaked off like powder and drifted to the floor.

  Using both hands, Nathan pulled the lapels of the coveralls apart and ripped the zipper from its stitching. More than anything else in the world, he wanted out of those clothes. He moved quickly and clumsily, as though the prison uniform were covered with spiders. With his shoulders clear, he dropped the collar to the floor and quick-marched free of the pantlegs.