This wasn't Ricky, and it wasn't Uncle Mark. Whoever this guy was, he was no drunk; he was a killer with a silencer on his gun, and he wanted Nathan dead badly enough that he was willing to kill a cop to do it.
What did I do?
There was no time for thought, only for action. He had to be ready for a fight, no matter how unlikely it was that he'd win. He needed a weapon. If only one of the bricks would come free . . .
"Naaathan," a voice sang from the hallway.
It was the most frightening sound Nathan had ever heard. A weapon. There had to be a weapon...
"Nathan Baileeeey! 0lly olly. oxenfree!" Pointer laughed.
Shit! SHIT! Maybe I can lift the bed . . . The bed! The wonderful, broken goddamn bed! Nathan darted two quick steps to the cot and snapped free the broken leg. It wasn't very big, but it was heavy. It just might . . .
A key slipped into the lock in the heavy door. Klunk.
Oh, God!
Nathan dashed silently back to the hinges, using the door's huge wooden panels as a shield. He saw the gun first. It came in quickly and made the turn, as though the intruder knew exactly where he was hiding. Nathan brought the cot leg down with both hands in a giant overhead arc onto the gun. It was the hardest he had ever swung at anything in his life, and it felt every bit as though he had impacted concrete, a shock wave reverberating through his arms and into his shoulders.
The pistol clattered to the concrete, but didn't go off. His first strike having been perfect, he recoiled for a second blow, but checked his swing and gasped audibly when he saw that his attacker was a cop!
What . . .
Pointer sensed the hesitation and saw his opportunity. He lunged at the boy.
Nathan got in a second shot, but it was all arms-no power-glancing off the man's shoulders just enough to unbalance him a bit. Nathan used the momentum for another home run swing to the side of his attacker's knee. Pointer went down with a snort, but never broke eye contact.
"Who are you?!" Nathan shouted.
Pointer didn't answer, but instead reached for the pistol on the floor.
Nathan screamed, "Don't!"
Pointer didn't hesitate for an instant. With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, he snatched the gun into his hand and brought it around, preparing to shoot through the A-frame of his armpit.
Nathan saw it coming and changed from home run hitter to woodsman, coming off his feet as he two-handed the makeshift baton down onto the back of Pointer's head. The "cop" collapsed so thoroughly and quickly that Nathan thought for sure he'd killed him.
He panicked. "Oh, God, I'm sorry!" he cried. "Why'd you do that? You made me do it! Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry!" It was like the JDC all over again. "Goddamn you!" he screamed, his shrill voice echoing through the empty hallway. "Why'd you do that?!"
When Pointer stirred, Nathan nearly cried with delight. He hadn't killed another cop after all! A bigger, infinitely more important question remained, however: Why were so many cops trying to kill him? And why were they killing each other?
He had to get out. Again. He had to run. Again.
What the hell is happening?
The hallway was clear, the doors all open. He considered that it might be a trap, but dismissed the fear as irrelevant. He couldn't stay, so he had to leave. If it was a trap, then they had him. That was that; end of story.
His Reeboks squeaked as they tried to dig into the linoleum floor to propel him up the incline. To his right, he glanced at the bloody heap on floor and hoped silently that it was the asshole who had wracked his balls. Nathan didn't even slow his stride as he plowed into the crash bar and threw open the front door of the police station and dashed out into the waiting night.
His flight from the JDC had been filled with fear and hesitation. Tonight, there was only the need to run, fast and hard.
Somewhere in all that darkness lay his future.
Chapter 28
Jesus Christ!"
The exclamation startled Pointer back to consciousness. His head felt like someone had lit a fire behind his eyes. That fucking kid . . .
"Sarge! Oh my God!" Schmidtt's voice was nearly a sob. He drew his weapon and chambered a round. "Steadman!" he called. "Steadman, are you here?"
Pointer reoriented himself in an instant, and formulated a plan. He couldn't believe that it all had become this complicated. "Steadman!"
The new addition to the evening's cast was an unwelcome intrusion, but Pointer could handle it. Just another bullet, that's all. He needed to draw the new cop into the cell somehow. Easily enough done. Pointer groaned loudly. It took no effort to sound convincing.
Little shit could have had a career ahead of him in the big leagues, he observed, trying to blink away the lingering fuzziness in his vision.
Schmidtt ran the distance to the open cell in seconds, his footsteps stopping just out of sight beside the opening. After what Pointer thought a ridiculously long hesitation, Schmidtt swung into the doorway, crouched into a two-handed shooting position.
His expression said it all. Who the hell are you?
Pointer sat propped up against the far wall, his head lolling against his chest. He moaned again for effect, even as he noted the bulge of the cop's chest protector through his uniform shirt. Head shot it is, Pointer thought.
Schmidtt nervously scanned the room for the perpetrator who had done this to his fellow police officers. If he had even the slightest suspicion of the stranger on the floor, his eyes showed none of it. In fact, he looked entirely relieved to find that whatever danger there had been had passed him by. The tension drained visibly from his shoulders as he straightened and approached his fellow police officer.
The moment Schmidtt holstered his weapon, Pointer brought his to bear. "Looking for me?" he said as he squeezed off a single round.
The bullet entered Schmidtt's head squarely at the crease of his lips, and sent him sprawling backwards into the hallway.
"Brilliant police work," Pointer chided, holding his aim for just a few seconds to make sure there was no movement before holster ing his own weapon.
Such a simple fucking job, and from what anyone would be able to tell, he was no better at it than the slob Bailey had hired to make the hit. Goddamn kid was slippery. And fast. Pointer was surprised by the effort it took to rise to his feet. He never did get a good look at what the kid used for a bat, but he admired the skill and guts it took to use it so well.
Mr. Slater was not going to be happy. Dead cops always brought more scrutiny than they were worth, and now there were two more of them. Questions were going to be asked. Pressure was going to be brought to bear, and Pointer knew enough about his boss's business to know that people sometimes had to be sacrificed to keep the heat off. The more loyal and hard-working the sacrificial lamb, the more the right people were satisfied. That meant Pointer, unless he could turn this all around somehow.
Everyone deserves a second chance, but no one deserves a third.
As he stared at the uniformed body in the corridor, the outline of a plan began to form in his mind. Most people thought that Nathan was a cop killer already. Looking at the physical evidence in the jail, they might just draw the same conclusion again, especially if Pointer stacked the deck some.
Stepping over Schmidtt's legs to gain access to his holster, Pointer noted with satisfaction the near-total absence of blood. It was a perfect shot. He removed the cop's pistol and stuck it into the waistband of his own trousers.
"You've been a bad boy, Nathan," he mocked as he strolled back toward the watch desk. "Didn't your mama ever tell you that you shouldn't shoot nice policemen?" His joke pleased him.
Back at the watch desk, he leaned awkwardly over Watts's body to reach the tape decks they used to record the security cameras. Three eject buttons produced three videotapes, which he tucked under his arm. When he looked at the clock, he was startled to see that it was nearly five o'clock. Hurrying his pace, he left through the front door.
Chapter 29
F
ully an hour passed before Nathan heard the first siren; but r when they came, they came by the dozens. Though he didn't dare peek out to take a look, his mind pictured scores of police cars zooming down the street, their tires screeching noisily as they slipped around sharp turns. Occasionally, from his hiding place in the stairwell of an apartment building, he could see red and blue lights painting the walls above him with their rotating beacons.
He realized, looking back, that he'd made a huge mistake in his latest escape strategy, and he cursed himself for it now. As he left the police station, it never occurred to him that he would have this much time to get away. Had he realized that, he would have run much further before stopping to hide. As it was, he figured he'd put maybe a mile at most between himself and the jail. From what the television news had taught him about police practices over the past couple of days, he knew that his position placed him squarely inside the initial search perimeter.
Unlike the JDC, which was located out of sight and out of mind in the country, this burg's jail was an annex to the courthouse, such as it was, the most prominent structure in a downtown area dominated by storefronts and alleyways. He'd passed the silhouette of a tall pencil-like monument in what had to be the town square, but the trees and shrubs that surrounded it were only three rows thick, offering no cover for him. As he dashed through the town, every window was dark, and not a single person or vehicle moved, making him feel all the more conspicuous and exposed as the only person stirring the thick silence of the humid night.
His fear of being noticed drove him to seek cover in the graffiti-stained stairwell. Below the sidewalk, and hidden behind five galvanized trash cans, he was invisible from the street, but the sun would rise soon, leaving him unprotected and out in the open.
Nathan didn't know what to do. The sun was already painting brilliant orange brushstrokes on the horizon, so his options for running on foot or even boosting a car were no longer viable. And he certainly couldn't stay where he was. Damn those cops, he thought. If only they'd minded their own business, he'd be at the border by now, worrying about evading Mounties.
The old feeling of hopelessness began to wash over him again, but he pushed it aside. No doubt about it, his plan was all shot to hell; but he had more immediate concerns to address.
Funny how the obvious is often the last thing you see. As his mind sought for a new plan, the solution first appeared in the form of a question: Where do these steps go, anyway?
In the darkness of the night, the stairwell had been only a black hole against the white concrete; but as the darkness turned to shades of gray, he became aware of a door to his left, obviously leading to a basement.
The instant he saw the door, he realized he'd discovered his only option, yet he hesitated before moving. Basements were places where rats and roaches lived; where it was always dark and always damp, hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Even in the nice homes of his childhood, basements had scared the bejeebers out of him. The specter of what horrible creatures might dwell in a place like this-both real and imagined 'madehim shiver.
Might as well be in jail as be in this basement, he thought critically.
But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? There was a big difference-a huge difference-between a basement and a jail. He could leave a basement any time he wanted to.
As yet another siren approached in the near-light of dawn, Nathan gathered his courage and entered the black basement through the door to his left, which, happily enough, was unlocked.
The phone rang six times before Warren even heard it through his sleep. It was like crawling out of a deep hole in his mind; the noise was at first processed as a part of a dream, making him wonder why the beautiful stranger fondling him would make such a piercing noise. By the third ring, he knew it was part of the real world; but it took two more for him to realize that the current real world was rooted in the darkness of the Spear and Musket Motor Lodge.
Pulling the handset down to his face, he grumbled, "Michaels."
"Hi, Warren, it's Jed," a familiar and wide-awake voice greeted him.
"Jesus, Jed, what time is it?"
"It's about five-twenty. Listen, some important shit went down last night. You awake enough to listen?"
The urgency in Jed's voice brought Warren to full consciousness. He pulled himself to a sitting position in bed and turned on the light on the nightstand. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Shoot."
"Nathan Bailey was caught last night in Pitcairn County, New York by some local sheriff's deputies."
"Really. How'd they get him?"
Jed explained all he knew about the chase and the arrest, and finished with the shootings. "The locals say that the Bailey kid grabbed one of the deputies' guns and just blasted his way out of the jail."
"Oh my God," Warren groaned. "Are both deputies dead?" "They never had a chance."
Warren was quiet for a long time, allowing his tired brain to process what it all meant.
"Are you there?" Jed prompted.
"What? Oh, yeah, sure. I just really wanted this one to turn out differently." Warren sighed. "I really bought into the kid's story."
Jed understood. It had been a tough year. "You know, Warren, you weren't alone on that score. I think we were all pulling for the kid. Boys his age are supposed to be innocent."
Warren swung his feet around and planted them on the floor, checking his watch. "I've come this far, Jed. I'm gonna head on up to Pitcairn County, wherever the hell that is, and see what we can do to assist in the kid's arrest. Pass the word to anyone who's interested."
"You got it, boss. Sorry to wake you."
"No you're not," Warren replied, careful to put a smile in his voice.
After hanging up, Warren sat still for a while, attempting to manage an odd assortment of emotions. He knew that he'd lost his objectivity on this case. Somehow or other, he'd bundled the Bailey kid's problems with Brian's death. He'd allowed himself to believe in the innocence of this boy whom he'd never met, to empathize with his fears and his desperation. Emotionally, it was a big step for him to accept that the kid could kill again. Brian could never have killed a man.
How, then, could Nathan Bailey?
The answer, he knew, was simple enough: They were different people. Each child had been raised with his own set of values, and Warren would never know which values were important to Bailey or his kin. It was just so damned hard to believe that the kid on the radio-the same kid who cleaned laundry and inventoried "borrowed" items-was capable of killing three police officers in cold blood. Perhaps Ricky had posed a threat to the boy, just like he claimed; but what possible justification could there be for killing two more people in an entirely different jurisdiction?
Again, the answer was simple: Nathan Bailey was a murderer and a dangerous fugitive. And it was Warren's job to help apprehend the kid before he harmed anyone else. The courts would then decide his fate. And however the chips fell, Warren would live at peace with the result.
After all, he wasn't the kid's father. And Nathan wasn't his son.
Bertrand Murphy was beside himself with anger and grief. Never before in his four consecutive terms as sheriff-indeed, in the history of the department-had there been such a tragic day. He had fielded the phone call in the wee hours from a hysterical deputy who had discovered the bodies as he arrived for shift change. Less than ten minutes after the call, Sheriff Murphy was on the scene to personally oversee the investigation and to make sure that the bodies were treated with the proper respect.
He was not prepared for what he found. Deputy Watts was a personal friend; they and their wives had played bridge together every other Thursday night since 1985. Their kids had grown up together, attending the same schools and playing on the same playgrounds. In another year, Adam, the oldest of the Watts brood, would be off to college with dreams of someday running a sporting goods store.
Schmidtt had been a new man on the force, having just finished rookie school the previous spring, and as such, Murphy hadn't rea
lly known him. Rumors told him that his wife was pregnant with their first baby, due in December.
"What kind of animal shoots two fine deputies?" Murphy asked Deputy Steadman, whose grief was written in deep wrinkles and pallid flesh. "Shot them in the mouth, for Christ's sake."
Under Murphy's watchful glare, a team of young deputies worked quickly to mark the outlines of the bodies on the floor with white adhesive tape, the last step before placing them in body bags and driving them off to the morgue, where the final insult of an autopsy awaited them. Murphy was sickened by the thought of a giant "Y" being carved into the torso of his friend while a team of pathologists with tape recorders and cameras piled his guts onto a plate.
He checked his watch. It was going on six o'clock. Word of the killings was spreading, and they had yet to announce the names of the dead, pending notification of their next of kin. That notification was his job, and it was time to get on with it. He turned to the grim-faced deputy at his side.
"You knew these men, didn't you, son?"
Steadman nodded, his eyes wet. "Yes, sir. Worked with them every day."
"You want to get even with the son of a bitch who did this to them, don't you?"
Steadman turned to face Murphy. His eyes gleamed with his thirst for retribution. "Yes, sir, I do."
Murphy nodded. "Good. I think you'll get your chance. But first, I have a job for you to do."
"Tell me what it is, and I'll do it."
"I have to go and break the news to the wives of these brave men. I'll return in an hour or so. In that time, I want you to oversee things here. Make sure your friends are handled gently, respectfully. And make sure that nothing except the bodies-and I mean nothing-is moved from this scene until get back."
Steadman nodded attentively. "Okay, sir, I'll see to it," he said. "Do you want me to order roadblocks, too?"
"No, son, we've already got deputies out on the street doing that even as we speak."
Nathan's Run (1996) Page 24
