Nathan's Run (1996) (2 page)

Hackner shrugged. "Not really. We've had people out looking for him for about fifteen minutes now."

Michaels glared again.

"Okay, okay," Hackner conceded. "He's got two hours on us. But we've got a call in to Old Man Peters for him to get his dogs up here, and we're in the process of setting up roadblocks at strategic points. You know, the whole drill."

Michaels sighed deeply. "Well, I guess it'll have to do,. won't it? Hell, if we can't track down a kid, I guess we've got a problem. How old is he, anyway?"

Chapter
3

Twelve-year-old Nathan Bailey tried to press his thin frame below the surface of the damp mulch and wedge in closer to the brick wall. Try as he might, he couldn't disappear entirely.

Despite the night's oppressive heat and stifling humidity, he couldn't stop shaking. Like the time two years ago-a whole lifetime ago-when he had an ear infection and a high fever; except this time, he didn't think he was sick. Just scared.

His efforts to blend in with the surroundings only made him more aware of how much he stood out. Everyone from the outside world wore shorts and T-shirts in the summer night, while he swam inside his ill-fitting orange coveralls, emblazoned across the back with the letters "JDC." The letters were supposed to arc across his shoulder blades, but in his case, they drooped above the small of his back. Ricky had told him on his first day that Medium was the smallest size available. It was a lie, of course. Ricky was such a jerk.

Nathan had no idea where he was. Once he was free of the JDC building, he'd just started running as fast as his bare feet would allow. At first the sticks and rocks had hurt as he ran over them, but once the fireworks started with all the explosions and lights, Nathan stopped feeling anything but his fear. He just kept running, with no idea where he was going. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was not going back there again.

Sharp explosions popped to his right.

Someone was shooting at him. Nathan jerked violently at the sound and reflexively clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming out. His instinct was to bolt out of his hiding place, but a voice deep inside told him to stay put.

If they were shooting at you, you'd be dead now, he reasoned. His heart pounded in his temples.

By pressing the left side of his face further into the mulch and closing his right eye, Nathan could see through the bottom of the boxwood that served as his shield against the world. There were no gunmen. Just a bunch of kids, five of them about his age, setting off firecrackers in the street. Ladyfingers, it looked like. As Nathan watched, the tallest of the kids lit another pack and dropped it casually onto the curb, moving back a couple of steps for safety. Another extended ripple of explosions followed, sending sparks and paper dancing randomly along the pavement in the dark.

Nathan's mind played back a scene of his father and him lighting off their own ladyfingers out in front of their own house. The scene in his head had all the clarity and detail of a Panavision movie. He remembered his dad assuring him, "They won't put you in jail for playing with firecrackers, son."

No, just for getting beat up.

A thousand thoughts and pictures suddenly flooded Nathan's mind. Life sucked. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right how his dad went off to heaven and left him in hell, alone with Uncle Mark; how people treated you like shit when there wasn't a grown-up around to help you; how everything you said was a lie just because you're a kid, and every lie a grown-up told was the truth just because they're a grown-up; how sometimes you had to kill .. .

For the first time, the enormity of what he had done came crashing down on him, with all the force of a rupturing dam. He'd been in trouble before, but never like this. They'd be looking for him. He had to get away, but he had no place to go.

He started to tremble again, his breathing becoming rapid and noisy. Even as he realized that he was making too much noise, he also realized that he couldn't stop it.

Nathan took a giant breath and let it out slowly.

Calm down, he commanded himself silently, but his breath shook just like the rest of him, making a steam-engine sound as he exhaled. You've got to calm down. He tried another breath, and it was a little better. The third time did the trick. He knew that if he panicked, he'd do something stupid, and that his only chance of survival depended on his being smart. Panic was right there, though, always a single thought, or a single noise, or a single encounter away.

He needed a plan. More than that, he needed sleep. He couldn't remember ever being this tired. He found himself drifting off where he lay, and he shook himself back to alertness. No, he told himself, not here.

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 me 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.