Taking a moment longer to look down on his mangled friend, Murphy said a brief, silent prayer for his soul before leaving to break the news to Judith Watts.
Denise rocketed upright in bed the instant the newscaster's words gelled in her sleep-deadened mind. She gasped, "No!"
But the deep baritone voice from her clock radio was unequivocal.
"Police sources will not release the names of the murdered officers, but they have officially confirmed reports that America's so-called favorite criminal escaped from custody in this quiet New York town, following the brutal, execution-style killing of his two captors. It is still not clear if there are any witnesses . . . "
Denise felt as though she'd been punched. How could he do such a thing? She knew he was desperate, but who would have thought? Words from her first conversation with Nathan rang in her memory.
"I'm not going back to that place . . . "
Could he possibly have meant that he would kill to stay out? Could it be that he was giving everyone a warning, but that they had missed it in their zeal to believe in the innocence of a child?
She remembered the vividness of his account of Ricky Harris's death, in which Nathan was the real victim. Could that all have been a lie? Maybe he was one of those children you read about in a Stephen King book, who's so psychotic that he doesn't know what his other half is doing.
Denise shook her head. None of this made sense. Call it woman's intuition, call it a feeling, call it whatever you wanted, but something about all of this didn't add up. Nathan wasn't a street kid, devoid of moral underpinnings. Sure, he'd had some rough times-so rough, in fact, that he refused to discuss them on the air-but could that push a boy to murder? Three times?
Execution-style.
Those were the words the newscaster had used. Execution-style. What did that mean, anyway? That wasn't the kind of term adlibbed by a good reporter. Terms like that come from police sources, sometimes before they've had a chance to develop the "approved" line on their statements to the press.
Denise tried to picture Nathan-whom she featured in her mind's eye as much smaller than any real-life twelve-year-oldordering two burly police officers up against some wall, their hands in the air, as he calmly and methodically shot them down like dogs. The image was so absurd as to be funny.
Even if he successfully shot one, how could he control the other? Handcuffs? Okay, so how does a kid get two grown men to sit still long enough to put cuffs on their wrists? For that matter, how could he get a gun away from a cop in the first place?
Something was terribly wrong with this picture. She picked up the phone and speed-dialed Enrique, who answered on the first ring.
"I just heard," he said.
J. Daniel Petrelli heard the news before most, delivered by a Washington Post reporter looking for a juicy quote from a sleep-dumb prosecutor. Now, as he sped north in a state police helicopter, he couldn't remember his exact reply, but he knew from the reporter's voice that it had been disappointing, properly sprinkled with the right words and expressions. Politician that he was, Petrelli wielded words like "tragic" and "untimely" with consummate skill.
In the air, Petrelli made no effort to conceal his joy at this recent turn of events. After making him look like an idiot for the past two days, the media would finally see the wisdom of what he had been saying all along. In one swift act of amazing violence, the boy who had single-handedly threatened to scuttle his senatorial campaign now stood to make him look like the truly sage philosopher that he was.
Whoever this hayseed Murphy was, he jumped at Petrelli's offer to provide assistance for the investigation. "I'll take whatever help you can give me to put that demon back in his cage," Murphy had said. Country lawmen, with their colorful language, always amused Petrelli. They said what was on their minds in the most direct and efficient language they could muster, no matter whose feelings were trampled. It was exactly the kind of venue he needed to rebuild his senatorial image.
Chapter 30
Sammy Bell turned the knob so there'd be no noise as he closed the door to Mr. Slater's office. He stood quietly, waiting to be recognized. In time, the old man looked up from his papers, but Sammy knew that he hadn't been reading at all, just collecting his thoughts. They both knew what had to be said. For Mr. Slater, it would be a difficult thing, but for Sammy, it was a moment for which he'd been waiting a long time.
For nearly forty years, the old man had leaned on Sammy for everything, depended on him to enforce the rules on the street. If someone stepped out of line, Sammy would set them straight. Loyal lieutenant that he was, Sammy had even buried a few bodies along the way.
Mr. Slater had run the drug, protection, banking and prostitution trades in his chunk of D. C. for over four decades. Back in the fifties, the Schillaci family tried to muscle him out, but Mr. Slater had been able to negotiate an amicable treaty with the Italians by taking temporary custody of Schillaci's daughter. The deal was finalized twenty minutes before Sammy was to have removed one of the girl's ears and have it delivered to the Don's headquarters.
Personally, Sammy had little patience for the Italians. Damn wops were a greasy, sleazy lot. But at least they had honor, and he admired that. So did Mr. Slater. In the years since their initial confrontation, Schillaci and Mr. Slater had run into each other quite a few times-inaugural balls, that sort of thing-and they'd become so civil over time that some observers thought they might actually have become friends.
Though separated in age by less than ten years, Sammy had always shown a paternal deference to Mr. Slater, who in turn doled out praise and criticism in the manner of a caring father. As the business grew and competitors came and went, only Sammy had chosen to stick exclusively with the old man, never once even dreaming about selling out. There was no such thing as loyalty anymore. Not even when the penalty was death.
They'd both hoped that Pointer would work out. He'd certainly shown the right signs, sticking in there and getting the job done despite his size and his girlish looks-the traits that led Sammy to turn the youngster away at first. But Pointer had begged and he made promises; looked like he might cry if Sammy didn't give him a chance. In the end, Sammy caved in, and right away, things started to go to hell.
Pointer wasn't content making deliveries and shuttling money. He wanted to be a hit man. That was the term he used-hit man. Like some dago thumb-breaker. When Sammy told him to quit watching movies and just do his job, Pointer went to Mr. Slater and delivered the same "please just give me a chance" speech. Like Sammy had done before, Mr. Slater bought it.
The day Lyle Pointer began collecting debts, he became the Hit Man, calling himself that on the street, and Mr. Slater loved it.
But Sammy saw through it right away. He couldn't stand the son of a bitch. Pointer dressed like a pimp; like a fucking wop, all leather and gold. And his shoes. Half the time, Sammy swore the punk wore women's shoes, barely as thick as a sheet of paper, and always made from the hide of some exotic reptile.
Think what he might, though, Sammy was more loyal than a seeing-eye dog, and if Mr. Slater wanted that sleazy punk representing him on the street-Lyle, for Chrissakes; who the fuck would name their child Lyle-well, then that's what Mr. Slater would have.
Sammy hated the mean streak worst of all. Pointer's love of plain cruelty-the pleasure he took from it-had gotten entirely out of hand the last couple of years, starting with that Donny Jackson fiasco. The nigger was just another punk; didn't know the rules yet. You don't slice off a kid's face and burn his balls off for a fucking mistake. That shit was just sick. Scary sick shit.
But Mr. Slater liked it. He said it made him feel like the old days, when the city was afraid of him. The respect had always been there, but it made him feel good to be feared again. Made him feel young.
To Sammy, respect was just fine. After all, he was the one who'd earned that respect for the old man. But Sammy was getting too old to be looking over his shoulder every day. Plus he had grandkids now, and it was about time
for him to start enjoying what was left of his life.
Too old. That really summed it all up. His business had always been about violence, but there used to be rules. Killing was a part of the business, but in the old days it was always a last resort, used to deliver a particular message to a particular person. These days, killing was just sport. The niggers on the street-hell, even the kids in the high schools-were just popping each other for grins. It never used to be like that.
And this business of killing kids for money, that was just plain fucking wrong. Made them look like animals; bumbling, incompetent animals at that. Sooner or later, the word would leak out that Mr. Slater was tied to this Nathan Bailey mess. When that happened, even the respect would be gone. They had to put a stop to this shit. They had to put a stop to Pointer.
Presently, as Mr. Slater looked up from his papers, he motioned Sammy into one of the well-padded guest chairs in front of the desk. As he accepted the offer and settled into the cushions, Sammy wondered just how many hours-no, how many years-of his life had been spent in one of these chairs.
They sat quietly for a while until Mr. Slater spoke. "Well?" he rasped.
"Well, what, Mr. Slater?" Though he had earned the right, Sammy felt awkward launching right into an I-told-you-so.
"You called this meeting, Sammy. I presume you want to discuss Lyle again."
Sammy cleared his throat. Even after as long as they'd known each other, it was still difficult to tell the old man that he'd fucked up. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. We've got to stop him, Mr. Slater."
Mr. Slater nodded. "You mean rein him in?"
Was it possible he didn't see the obvious? "No, sir. I mean .. . more than that. He's killed two cops now. The prison guard was bad enough, but cops. Jesus. When word leaks out, everything we've built will come down around our ears. It's not worth it, sir. Pointer has to be sacrificed?'
Mr. Slater formed a steeple with his fingers and pressed them against his lips. "Suppose word doesn't leak out? We have many secrets, Sammy. Not all of them leak out."
"We've never had a secret like this, Mr. Slater. In all the years, we've only had to whack one cop, and that was because he was playing both ends. We did the cops a favor, and even they knew it. But this shit's out of control. Son of a bitch is killing everyfuckingbody. It's nuts."
The old man considered Sammy's words. "And what about the money? Do we just forget about the money?"
Sammy's mouth struggled for better words for a while, but then he gave up and shrugged. "yeah," he said. "Yeah, we forget about the money, just like you told Pointer the other day. We make that Mark Bailey asshole go away, and we write off the five hundred grand to bad business."
Mr. Slater inhaled noisily and let it go with considerable effort. The air made a growling sound as it rumbled through his emphysemic lungs. "Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, Sammy?'
"Yes, it is. And let's not forget who pitched this crazy plan in the first place:'
"Ah, yes. Lyle again."
"And this business of killing a kid for money . . . "
Mr. Slater silenced him with a wave. "You've made your point, Sammy."
"Yes, sir." Sammy broke eye contact and stared at his own foot, where it rested leisurely against the opposite knee. As Mr. Slater worked his way through the problem, only the rattling of his breathing pierced the silence.
At length, Mr. Slater spoke. "We must do what must be done. But I want some dignity for Lyle. He's served well:'
"Yes, sir?' Sammy agreed.
"He'll call this morning. I want to speak with him when he does:'
"Yes, sir."
Sammy read his boss's body language and rose to leave, glancing at the old man one last time to check his mood. How ancient Slater looked, every year and every decision having carved a crease into his yellow-gray flesh. His boss would be gone soon, and there'd be no one to take his place. The punks would inherit the streets. That would be a tragic day, Sammy thought.
Was it possible he didn't see the obvious? "No, sir. I mean .. . more than that. He's killed two cops now. The prison guard was bad enough, but cops. Jesus. When word leaks out, everything we've built will come down around our ears. It's not worth it, sir. Pointer has to be sacrificed."
Mr. Slater formed a steeple with his fingers and pressed them against his lips. "Suppose word doesn't leak out? We have many secrets, Sammy. Not all of them leak out."
"We've never had a secret like this, Mr. Slater. In all the years, we've only had to whack one cop, and that was because he was playing both ends. We did the cops a favor, and even they knew it. But this shit's out of control. Son of a bitch is killing everyfuckingbody. It's nuts."
The old man considered Sammy's words. "And what about the money? Do we just forget about the money?"
Sammy's mouth struggled for better words for a while, but then he gave up and shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we forget about the money, just like you told Pointer the other day. We make that Mark Bailey asshole go away, and we write off the five hundred grand to bad business."
Mr. Slater inhaled noisily and let it go with considerable effort. The air made a growling sound as it rumbled through his emphysemic lungs. "Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, Sammy."
"Yes, it is. And let's not forget who pitched this crazy plan in the first place:'
"Ah, yes. Lyle again."
"And this business of killing a kid for money . . . "
Mr. Slater silenced him with a wave. "You've made your point, Sammy?'
"Yes, sir." Sammy broke eye contact and stared at his own foot, where it rested leisurely against the opposite knee. As Mr. Slater worked his way through the problem, only the rattling of his breathing pierced the silence.
At length, Mr. Slater spoke. "We must do what must be done. But I want some dignity for Lyle. He's served well."
"Yes, sir," Sammy agreed.
"He'll call this morning. I want to speak with him when he does:'
"Yes, sir."
Sammy read his boss's body language and rose to leave, glancing at the old man one last time to check his mood. How ancient Slater looked, every year and every decision having carved a crease into his yellow-gray flesh. His boss would be gone soon, and there'd be no one to take his place. The punks would inherit the streets. That would be a tragic day, Sammy thought.
Chapter 31
Billy Alexander was the only kid in Mrs. Lippincott's fourth--
grade class who hated summer vacation. For all he knew, he was the only kid in the world who preferred school to time off. He talked about his feelings one time to an older kid who lived down the hall, a white dude, but the reaction he got convinced him that it was best to keep such thoughts to himself.
At school, there was always something good to eat, and there were friends to play with and air conditioning to dry up the sweat. Billy's apartment, on the other hand, was a sweatbox, stuck on the side of the building where breezes rarely stirred. When his mom was home-she worked all the time-she'd pick up some groceries and maybe even cook a real dinner. Most of the time, though, he'd be stuck picking through whatever was left in the cupboards. This morning, he'd boiled himself some macaroni for breakfast. It would have tasted better with some tomato sauce or some butter, but hey, you had to make do with what you had.
The very worst part, though, was the loneliness. At ten, Billy was the youngest kid in his building by about six years, and the only one who wasn't a doper or a crackhead. The people who lived in his neighborhood scared the hell out of him. Fights and shootings were the routine. Billy couldn't remember a weekend when there weren't cop cars or ambulances out front.
In the two years that they'd been living in the Vista Plains Apartments, he'd been nearly shot twice, beaten up five times, robbed of every dime he'd ever put into his pocket, and was even tossed down the fire escape stairs once. That one required a trip to the hospital in an ambulance, and got him six stitches in his forehead. Eight months later, his mom had yet to notice t
he scar.
Billy knew that his life sucked, and he figured that sooner or later he was going to become a loser just like all the others, but for the time being, he liked to pretend that maybe it would be different for him. If he actually learned all that crap they were teaching him in school, and if he just stayed away from the other kids from his neighborhood, maybe, just maybe, he could be different. Black folks had done it before. Colin Powell had done it, and Colin Powell was his hero.
So summertime was something he had to endure. He had his books and he had his television, and it wasn't like he was starving to death or anything. Most important, he had his best friend Barney, a golden retriever-and-god-knows-what-else mix that Billy had found in an alley, trying to make a meal out of a tipped-over trash can. For both boy and dog, it had been love at first sight, and they'd been inseparable for nearly three months now. Billy noticed with some interest that even people who had no respect for a kid showed respect to a kid with a big dog.
At the moment, Billy was doing the one chore that he hated above all others: taking the trash downstairs. The basement of his apartment building was a dark, damp, stinky place where people who had no homes would go to camp out, or shoot up, or sometimes die. He'd never seen anything particularly scary down there himself, but he'd heard stories.
As always, he let Barney go down first, to flush out whatever bad guys might be lurking. Dutifully, the beast trotted on down, then paused at the bottom, staring back up at his master. The stupid, expectant look on the dog's face made Billy laugh.
"You haven't figured out that you're the bait, have you boy?" Billy said as he negotiated the stairs. Barney's wagging tail was unbalancing the dog's back end, causing him to do a silly little dance with his hind legs just to keep from falling over.
Billy wasted no time doing his duty. Lifting the lid of the galvanized trash can with his left hand, he slung the three plastic trash bags-they'd been grocery bags in their past lives-into the opening.
He'd just turned to go back up the stairs when he heard it. Some boxes in the corner moved. Barney heard it, too. The dog braced his legs and lowered his head, the fur along his spine rising like porcupine quills. The ferocious noise that issued from the dog's throat was unlike anything Billy had ever heard.
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