Nathan's Run (1996)

by John Gilstrap

  "W-who's there?" Billy called out to the shadows near the furnace. Barney seemed confused, not knowing whether to attack or to stay back and defend his master.

  "W-whoever you are, you better come out before my dog kills you." Despite the fear in his belly, Billy's voice carried the firm conviction of one who was stating the obvious.

  First one, and then two- and then three-at-a-time, boxes and trash bags fell away from the stack in the corner and tumbled to the floor. Like peeling away a banana, the falling boxes revealed a terrified white boy, who slowly rose to his feet, his hands outstretched in front of him to ward off Barney's threatening moves.

  Billy had watched the news that morning. It took him five seconds to put it all together.

  "You're Nathan, aren't you?" Billy said.

  Nathan nodded and swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the angry beast. "I-I w-won't hurt anybody," Nathan declared.

  "What are you doing-"

  The dog . . . "

  "You killed those guys."

  Nathan shook his head frantically, never moving his eyes from the snarling mutt. "No. No, I didn't, honest. I don't know what's happening, but I'm not the one."

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  Nathan swallowed again and jumped when Barney moved his head. "Cops. Th-they're looking for me."

  Billy studied the other boy for a long moment. "So I hear," he said.

  "Could you . . . The dog . . . "

  Billy hesitated for a few seconds, then stooped down to rub Barney's ears. "Be cool, Barney. Let's hear what the dude has to say for himself?'

  "How come you know who I am?" asked Nathan.

  Billy snorted out a chuckle. "You're in deep shit, man. Everybody knows who you are. You were on Nightline last night."

  Nathan's eyebrows shot up as he felt a rush of pride. You had to be somebody to get on Nightline. Hell, the president had been on Nightline! Then again, so had Charles Manson.

  "What'd they say about me?"

  Billy shrugged. "Half the world thinks you're a murderer and the other half thinks you're some kind of hero."

  "I'm no hero," Nathan said, shaking his head. "But I'm no murderer either."

  For the first time, Billy made long eye contact with Nathan. Billy had adult's eyes, Nathan saw. They were the eyes of someone who'd seen his own share of adversity; hard and warm at the same time.

  "Until this morning I might have agreed with you, bro. But those dead cops they found last night didn't keel over from heart attacks. How do you explain that?"

  "I didn't kill anyone!" Nathan declared, missing Billy's use of the plural. "A cop killed that cop. Then he tried to kill me." It took a few minutes to tell the story. Billy seemed to accept it as fact.

  "So, who killed the second cop?" Billy asked at the end. Nathan scowled. "What second cop?"

  Billy explained.

  Nathan gasped and sank slowly to the floor. He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Oh, shit, they think I did all that?"

  Billy nodded. "Yep. And they're talking serious shit about not letting you get away with it." Then he laughed. "Like they were just gonna let you get away with killing the guy in Virginia. You did kill that one, right?"

  "Yeah . . . well, not until he tried to kill me."

  Billy's attitude turned suddenly skeptical. "So how come everybody's trying to kill you?"

  Nathan tossed his hands in the air. "Damned if I know. It's worse than that. Not everybody is trying to kill me, only cops." "Who'd you piss off?"

  "I don't know! But I sure did a good job of it."

  Another long silence followed. "What are you gonna do next?" Billy finally asked.

  Nathan studied the other boy before answering. "I don't know. What are you gonna do?"

  "Well, I ain't gonna call the heat, if that's what you mean. Too many of them suckers around here as it is."

  Nathan considered his next question for a long time before asking it. "Can I hide in your place for the day?"

  Billy's answer came easily, as though he'd been anticipating the request. "Sure, why not?" he said. "Don't got much to eat, but we got a TV and I got some games and stuff?'

  Nathan winced. "Watching TV's gotten pretty depressing for me recently?'

  Billy laughed again. "I bet."

  "What time is it?" asked Nathan.

  Billy shrugged. "I don't know exactly. It was about eight-fifteen

  when I came downstairs. Why? You got an appointment?"

  Nathan smiled and shook his head. "No, but come ten o'clock I got a phone call to make."

  Chapter 32

  By the time Warren arrived at the Pitcairn County Sheriff's Office, the place was a media circus, with satellite trucks parked nose-to-tail down the last quarter-mile of Main Street. Approaching the front entrance, he saw two network reporters whom he recognized from the evening news broadcasts. Jesus, he thought. They're bringing their New York staffs into this thing.

  His gold badge granted him unimpeded access into the building, through the crowds of reporters and citizens. Just as he opened the glass doors to enter, one of the reporters recognized him and called his name. Warren didn't even break stride.

  The first face he saw belonged to Petrelli, who was already holding court in the hallway, issuing instructions to people over whom he had no authority, but who nevertheless seemed to be listening. Warren could tell from the body language alone that he was in the middle of one of his "let's-go-out-and-get-'em" Knute Rockne pep talks.

  With too little sleep to his credit and way too much caffeine in his system, Warren knew he was ill-prepared to encounter Petrelli just then, and he tried to become invisible as he passed the crowd. It didn't work.

  "Lieutenant Michaels!" Petrelli called in his most officious tone. "Can you come here a minute, please?"

  Warren stopped, sighed, and then worked his way through the knot of police officers to stand next to Petrelli.

  "This is Detective Lieutenant Warren Michaels," Petrelli announced to the group. "Notwithstanding a bit of trouble getting a handle on this particular case, the lieutenant is one of Braddock County's finest police officers. I've asked him to travel here to New York to assist in our efforts to catch Nathan Bailey."

  Warren shot a withering look at Petrelli. Nobody had asked Warren to do anything. He was in Pitcairn County of his own volition, and he was none too certain how the chief was going to respond when he heard.

  "Sorry about fumbling the ball, there, J.," Michaels mumbled, just loud enough for Petrelli to hear. "We can't all be as successful as you've been these last few days?' This was Petrelli at his finest: center stage, big case, hungry audience, and manufacturing facts at will.

  A pro at selective hearing, Petrelli ignored the comment. "We all know what's at stake here," he concluded. "Now let's work together to stop this animal before he can hurt anyone else."

  "Have we got the green light to take him out if we have to?" asked one of the deputies. He looked maybe twenty years old. "I mean, he's just a kid. I don't want to have to spend the rest of my career in a courtroom if it comes down to him and me and I win."

  The rumbling murmur through the crowd indicated that it was a shared sentiment.

  Petrelli was ready. "I've said all along that I think we should treat this monster as an adult. Clearly, he's capable of unspeakable violence. But that's really not my call to make, Deputy. Sheriff Murphy's got to make that decision."

  All eyes turned toward a bald, heavyset man standing on the other side of Petrelli from Michaels. Till now, the man had looked distracted, as though his mind were elsewhere, like a platoon leader who'd just lost his troops in combat. With attention now focused on him, Murphy set his jaw and faced his men.

  "Two wonderful families lost fine husbands and fathers this morning," he said softly. Though barely audible, his voice was the very essence of strength. The hallway grew silent as he spoke. "Those men were friends of mine, colleagues of yours. A murderer took these peace officers from us in cold blood, and
I have no intention of seeing him take any more. To answer your question, Deputy, yes, you have the green light. If you feel threatened, you take him out."

  It was what they wanted to hear. "Fucker's history," Deputy Steadman said at the front of the crowd.

  "There you go, men," Petrelli concluded, careful to rob Murphy of the last word. "You have your orders. Go out and bring the bastard in."

  Warren was horrified. As the group of police officers broke up and headed out to fulfill their orders, he turned to face Murphy and Petrelli, his mouth agape. "Jesus Christ, Petrelli, you just issued a death warrant on that kid."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, Warren, don't be such a woman." He turned his back on Michaels.

  Warren leveraged a shoulder to spin him back around. "What the fuck gives you the right to form a lynch mob? My God, Petrelli, you're an officer of the court! You can't authorize an execution!"

  Petrelli's eyes burned with self-righteous anger. "Get your hands off of me, Lieutenant, or I'll have you arrested for assault. Save your theatrics for that incompetent staff of yours. All we're trying to do is finish the job that you couldn't. If the kid gets killed, it's because he deserves it. When his arrest comes down, he'll just have to be very careful, that's all:'

  Warren knew that Petrelli was an asshole; there was no use trying to talk to him. He turned his attention to Murphy. "Sheriff?" he said. "You've got to tone down the rhetoric, sir. Those men think you just authorized them to kill a twelve-year-old boy."

  Warren wasn't sure what to make of the look he got from Murphy. It wasn't angry; it wasn't sad. Tired. That was it, he looked tired.

  "Look, Lieutenant," he said patiently. "My boys know how to do their jobs. If the kid can be taken alive, that's how it will go down. If he poses a threat, he's toast. It's that simple."

  "It's not that simple!"

  "It's exactly that simple!" There was the anger. Suddenly Murphy seethed with it. "Don't you tell me how to run my department, Michaels. That animal killed two of my deputies. Here are the pictures." He thrust a fistful of Maroids at Warren. "The way I look at it, if you hadn't fucked up on your end, I wouldn't have had to console two widows this morning. This is my case now, and I'll run it my way-which is to capture the bad guy and eliminate the threat to the community. That's what I'm elected to do. If that means that a young killer doesn't get a chance to grow up to be an old killer, then I can live with that."

  A long moment passed with Michaels and Murphy staring angrily at each other. Then the anger disappeared from Murphy's countenance and he just looked tired again. Without another word, the sheriff turned and walked toward his office. Petrelli followed.

  Goddamn politicians, thought Warren.

  The very last thing in the world that Pointer wanted to do was call Mr. Slater. Nonetheless, the call had to be made. Pointer was a professional, and one of the duties of a professional was to own up to his mistakes. Sammy Bell answered the phone and passed him right through to Mr. Slater. Said he'd been expecting the call.

  "Is it true what they say on the news, Lyle?" the old man asked, his raspy voice giving testimony to fifty years of unfiltered Chesterfields. "Is it true that you let this Bailey boy get away again?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Slater," Pointer explained, surprised by the shakiness of his own voice, "but it's like this . . . "

  "Be quiet, Lyle," commanded Mr. Slater. "I don't want to hear any more of your excuses. Do you comprehend how much embarrassment you've brought down on us with your incompetent screwups? Do you know what the others will say about us? Even the niggers will laugh at us. Punk kids, Lyle, and they'll be laughing at us."

  "It's not like you think, Mr. Slater," Pointer offered.

  "Shut up," the old man commanded a second time. "You don't know what I think, Lyle, and I don't care what you think. I care about performance, Lyle, and you've let me down terribly. Now, here's what I want you to do. Leave the boy alone. It appears that the police are intent on keeping him from our grasp. I want you to come home. We have some things we need to discuss."

  Pointer felt himself hyperventilating, but he could not control his breathing. "What about that asshole Mark Bailey? Don't you want me to . . . "

  "We'll take care of him."

  "Please, Mr. Slater, at least let me . . .

  "I said we'll take care of him, Lyle. I want you to come home. I want to see you in my office this afternoon at five."

  Pointer closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. For a moment, he thought he might cry.

  "Do you understand me, Lyle?"

  "Yes, sir." Pointer's tone was flat, as though he were dead already. "Lyle?"

  "Yes, Mr. Slater?"

  "Make it easy on yourself, son," the old man instructed, an unexpected touch of kindness in his voice. "Don't make us come after you."

  Unable to make his voice work, Pointer placed the phone gently on the cradle. He cocked his head oddly as he stared at his hands. He had never seen them shake before.

  Warren set up camp in an empty office, where he leafed through the Polaroids for the sixth time. Not knowing the officers involved personally, the pictures were no more or less shocking than dozens of others he'd seen, but the sheer violence of the act was baffling. The marksmanship was amazing. Three shots were fired, each one a kill shot. Where does a kid learn to shoot like that? He jotted the thought down on a yellow legal pad. One shot like this might be luck. To score three meant skill.

  The circumstantial, physical evidence was undeniable, but Warren still couldn't put it together in his head. How did a kid who had spent most of his formative years in upper-crust suburbia learn to kill with such skill? How did a twelve-year-old who was known by his peers as a wimp muster the courage and physical strength to overcome three adults and kill them? Okay, so the first one -was drunk and unlucky-or so said Nathan-but what about the ones last night? How does a boy wrestle a gun from a man and still have enough composure to snap off perfect kill-shots?

  For that matter, what were the cops doing wearing firearms in the cellblock? That violated the most basic security procedures followed by every jail in America.

  He tried to reduce it to a timeline on his legal pad. Assuming that Nathan got as far as his cell, and according to Deputy Steadman, that was where the boy was the last time he saw him, Schmidtt had to be the first one killed. Otherwise, where would Nathan have gotten the gun? Warren wrote on his pad, Smuggled in gun?

  No, the gun he took from the Grimeses' house was found in the Honda, unused. Could always have been a second piece, but where would he hide it? Steadman's report said that Nathan was thoroughly frisked before he was put away.

  So, one way or another, Nathan whacked Schmidtt. With the door open, he had free access to the hallway. So why didn't Watts react? He was shot in his chair, once close up, and once from further away. The Polaroids clearly showed powder burns around the mouth shot, but none on the chest. When you hear shooting down the hall, you don't just stay in your seat. You react. At the very least, then, there should have been a shootout in the hallway, but that wasn't the way it happened. Watts was shot dead where he sat. Shot twice.

  Michaels strolled out to the watch desk and ran some quick mental calculations. The young deputy assigned to maintain security stepped aside to let him past. Standing at the side of the watch desk, at the doorway to the cellblock, Warren pantomimed a shot. His extended arm came within three feet of the taped outline on the floor. This had to be where the head shot was fired. The circled hole in the linoleum even showed where the bullet exited Watts's brain and lodged in the floor.

  That meant Watts was already on the ground when Nathan allegedly fired point-blank into his mouth. In all his years on the force, Warren could only point to a handful of sociopaths with the cojones to shoot a man in the face at close range.

  Why would he do that? Warren asked himself.

  Taking care not to step in the blood slick, Warren stepped in behind the watch desk to pantomime the events. "Okay," he said aloud, talking hims
elf through the timeline. "I'm sitting here doing paperwork, and I hear a shot from down the hall. What do I do?"

  "You'd go and check it out," the young deputy answered, apparently thinking the question was addressed to him.

  "Huh?" The comment briefly broke Warren's concentration. "Right. Yes. That's exactly what you'd do." He again stepped over the mess to enter the hallway. "So, reacting to the noise, you run out into the hall like this, with your weapon drawn, right? I mean, you'd be ready for a fight, right?"

  "Shit, yes," the deputy declared.

  Warren nodded. It was coming together. "Yes. Shit, yes. Like you said." He fumbled through the Polaroids again. "But Watts's weapon remained in its holster. Why wouldn't he draw his weapon?"

  The deputy shrugged. "Beats me."

  "Yeah, me too."

  "Maybe he holstered it after he was hit."

  Warren considered that. "So, you hear gunfire. You react. You come out into the hall, and you're bushwhacked with an incredibly good shot. You're hit in the chest. Surely you know you're dying, or at least you know you're in a hell of a lot of pain. Are you going to take the time to reholster your weapon?"

  The deputy shrugged again. "Don't know. Never been shot."

  Warren chuckled. The logic amused him. "Fortunately, neither have I. But I just can't imagine that. The last thing I'd do is take away my last chance for fighting back."

  "What else could have happened?" asked the deputy.

  "Suppose he never drew his weapon in the first place?" "Shit," the deputy snorted. "That don't make no sense either."

  Warren nodded pensively. "No. No, it doesn't. A cop hears shots, he's gonna pull his gun. It's instinct. Unless . . . "

  Suppose somebody shot Watts first? Chest shot first, then, as he lay on the ground, the head shot. That would work. And Schmidtt? He had to be shot second. Well, maybe he didn't have to be, but it sure made sense.