Nathan's Run (1996) (28 page)

Emotions always ran strong on highly publicized cases such as this, but Greg was personally offended that the death of a law enforcement officer was so easily swept under the carpet in people's minds. People had an idealized picture of what childhood was supposed to be like, and they found it difficult to accept the reality of today's kids. In his years as a cop, Greg had seen countless hoodlums in kids' bodies, and as far as he was concerned, the size of the package didn't affect the seriousness of the crime. When this Bailey kid was caught, he hoped they'd throw him in a cage forever.

If Greg had anything to say about it, he was going to be part of that process. While most of his cop buddies thought Nathan would have fled further away from the Beemer, Greg had a feeling that the boy was close by. According to the reports he'd read, Bailey had spent the first night less than a half mile from the prison. If Greg were in the kid's position, he'd want to get under cover just as fast as he could, and that would mean Little Rocky Creek.

Greg refused to be discouraged. These things often took time. At those houses where no one was home, he left his card and a hastily-authored information sheet on the boy. If someone knew something, he was confident that they'd speak up.

As he approached the house at 4120, he was already folding his card into the next flier in the stack. He knocked on the door as a formality, really. He had come to recognize the look of an empty house.

Nathan jumped a foot and fell to the floor at the sound of the door knocker. His first thought was that the gun had fired. Then, in the next instant, he knew exactly what was happening. Through the sheer curtains over the front window, he could see the unmistakable outline of a police officer waiting at the front door. He became perfectly still, not even daring to breathe.

The cop had a bunch of papers in his arm, and the papers looked for all the world like a picture of Nathan.

"Jesus Christ," Nathan whispered. "They found me."

But the cop wasn't acting like he'd found anything at all. He was acting like he was looking for something. He rapped on the door a second time, then peered through a cupped hand into the darkened living room, after checking over both shoulders to see if anyone was watching. Nathan would swear that they looked right at each other.

Still, there was no reaction. For the second time in as many days, he'd come eye to eye with his enemy, and nothing had happened. After perhaps fifteen seconds more, the cop slid one of the papers behind the screen door, then turned and walked away.

For a long time, Nathan stayed frozen to the floor. He couldn't have moved if he had wanted to. As the adrenaline drained from his system, he felt light-headed and sick to his stomach. He rose to his knees, then swung himself back onto the sofa, where he allowed himself the slightest smile. They'd been fifteen feet away from him, and they still missed. Someday he hoped he'd have the opportunity to tell them about it.

Someday.

Into his darkness crept a tiny ray of light. Where just moments before there had been only bleakness and the future had seemed unbearable, there now was reason for hope. His dad had once told him that hope was the most valuable possession a man could own. When he'd first said it, Nathan hadn't known what he'd meant. Now it was clear. Hope was where tomorrow resided.

His eyes fell once again to the gun in his hands. With its hammer drawn back and poised to fire, it looked evil, like a single-toothed serpent, offering such simple, permanent solutions to life's difficult problems. In the diminishing light of the evening, he realized the shame of what he had nearly done. A shiver wracked his body as he remembered his finger tightening on the trigger he could barely reach.

If it weren't for the cop at the door, he'd be dead now; yet it was the specter of encountering the police that had driven him to peer down that huge muzzle in the first place. He'd visited a place in his soul where he hoped he'd never return. What frightened him the most was how easy and effortless the trip had been.

Nathan let the gun slip from his hand onto the carpet, and, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he started to cry.

Over a hundred miles away, Lyle Pointer swung his Porsche onto the Beltway heading north. In the uniform he wore, he looked just like a police officer.

Chapter
23

Jed had assumed that Ricky lived alone. There was no record of a wife, and none of the JDC staff had mentioned anything about a significant other. He was certain the question had been asked; it was standard procedure. When he requested the key to look around the apartment, though, the manager told him that Ricky's girlfriend was still there and could let him in. Her name was Misty.

The Brookfield Garden Apartments were built in the early sixties to meet the county's growing need for affordable housing, mostly for young military families. Somewhere along the line, the owners of the complex had landed subsidized housing contracts from both the state and federal governments, and now it was on the police dispatcher's Trouble List: two cops minimum for any disturbance call.

Physically, there wasn't much difference between these garden-style apartments and the garden-style apartments in Fairfield that continued to attract the young professional crowd. Except, of course, that these grounds were littered with trash, the chains on the swing sets were rusted, and the in-ground swimming pool hadn't seen water in a decade.

Misty. Now there's a name, Jed thought as he ambled up the stairs to the second floor. In his mind, he'd pegged Ricky's girlfriend as a big-boobed bimbette, with frosted hair and a Texas accent. Probably worked as an exotic dancer. As he rapped on the hollow door, he held his badge up next to his chin, where it would be visible through the peephole. He kept his right hand free, just in case, pressing his elbow against his side to double-check on the Glock. In this complex, you could never be too careful.

He was about to knock a second time when he heard the knob turn and the door was pulled open, releasing a pulse of refrigerated air into the thick heat of the day.

Jed's assumptions couldn't have been further off the mark. The woman he faced looked no more exotic than a grieving housewife. She was young, maybe twenty-five, neatly dressed in a cheap shorts set. She wore her shoulder-length brown hair tied back in a tight ponytail, which she had clipped up to the back of her head. From a distance, she would have been attractive, but up close, her only visible feature was a deep red scar that traversed the bridge of her nose and continued under her left eye, nearly to her ear. The lines of the wound were too deliberate to be anything but an intentional act of violence. Jed fought the urge to look away, concentrating intently on her eyes. She had been crying.

"Are you Misty?" Jed asked.

"Mitsy," the woman corrected, shifting her eyes from Jed's face to his badge and then back again. "About time you got here."

"Beg pardon?"

"I said it's about time you got here. I had to hear about Ricky on television. Y'all could've at least shown the courtesy of telling me in person." Her voice sounded strained. She stepped back and to the side, inviting Jed to enter.

As he crossed the threshold, Jed broke eye contact and fumbled for his notebook. "Well, fact is, ma'am, we didn't know that Mr. Harris had a . . . well, significant other."

Mitsy kind of snorted and shook her head as she retreated deeper into the apartment. "Jesus. You guys are something else. Significant other. You make it sound so romantic?' She disappeared around the corner into the kitchen.

"I need you to stay out here, please," Jed called. He fought the urge to draw down.

Mitsy came back around the corner with a half-empty Budweiser longneck. "Relax, officer, I don't own a gun." She slumped heavily into the sofa, sending a puff of cushion stuffing into the air, and gestured to a sagging La-Z-Boy. "Take a load off," she said.

"No thanks, I'd rather stand," Jed replied. The apartment was decorated in early yard sale, but it was clean enough, and Jed saw none of the accumulated dust and food trash he had come to associate with Brookfield Gardens. "Are you here alone?"

Mitsy nodded pensively. "I am now," she said, all but finishing her beer in one extended guzzle. A scattered pile of empties lay on the floor near the shipping crate that served as an end table. "So, are you gonna catch that little son of a bitch or not?"

"And who would that be, ma'am?"

Mitsy looked at Jed, then shook her head in disgust. "Who would that be, ma'am," she mocked. "Who the hell do you think? How many little son of a bitches are you looking for?"

"Look, Ms., uh . . . "

"Cahill. Mitsy Cahill."

"Ms. Cahill, look. I know this isn't pleasant, but do you think . . . "

"Sit down, goddammit!" Mitsy shouted, her eyes wet. "Just sit down and talk to me, will you?" Tears splashed down her cheeks as she blinked, and she wiped them with her fingertips in a futile effort to preserve her makeup. She took a deep breath and composed herself, then softened her expression as she again motioned to the chair. "Please," she said, much more quietly. "It's been a very lonely, very difficult day. I'm thrilled to have the company. Please."

Jed shifted his stance uncomfortably, checked his watch, then sat down in the worn-out La-Z-Boy. It was like sitting on the edge of a well.

"So," Mitsy declared, using the word as a sentence, an icebreaker. She forced a smile. "Nobody knows about Ricky and me, huh? I guess that means he didn't talk about me very much to his friends." The thought seemed to sadden her.

Jed shook his head. "No, ma'am, I guess not. At least not to the people we spoke with."

She sighed and dabbed her eyes again. "He thought I was too ugly to show off to his friends. He never said it in so many words, but I always knew he was thinking it."

Jed suddenly felt obligated to contradict her, to say she wasn't ugly at all, but he sensed that Mitsy would know better. He just let the words hang in the air for a while as she seemed to travel in her mind to a faraway place. After ten seconds or so, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Were you and Mr. Harris married?" he asked.

The question seemed to bring her back into the world. She shook her head and looked down. "No," she said softly. "We talked about it a few times, but the time was never right. First we were waiting for him to have a better job, then after I got laid off, we were waiting for me just to have a job. When I finally found work, we needed to save some money. Recently, it's been Ricky's drinking. I was waiting for him to stop. All in all, we've been talking for nearly three years now. Never meant to be, I guess."

Mitsy paused for a moment, looking like she might crumble. Then she smiled again-a tired, humorless smile that seemed to be an extension of her tears. "Like my sister told me, Ricky's a man, and he was willing to take me in. With my face . . ." Her voice trailed off. "All things considered, he was a good man."

Of the two of them there in the room, Jed wasn't at all sure who was less convinced by her conclusion. "Did Ricky have anything to do with . ." He aborted the question. There was no way to phrase it that would not seem brutish.

Mitsy let him off the hook. "My face? Oh, heavens, no. This was a gift from a boyfriend I dumped back in high school. Said he'd make me so ugly nobody else would ever want me." She shrugged, as though she had told the story enough that it didn't bother her anymore. "It worked, too. Until Ricky. And now I find out that he thought . . . Well, it's been a very, very long day."

Jed cleared his throat. "Well, Ms. Cahill..."

"Please," she interrupted. "Call me Mitsy."

Jed smiled. "Okay, Mitsy. I don't mean to pry at such a difficult time, but I do need to ask you a few questions."

"About Ricky?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"He's not just an innocent victim, is he?"

The directness of the question caught Jed off guard, yanking his eyes from his notebook. "Actually, that's what we're trying to find out."

The room fell silent as Mitsy struggled with her thoughts. "He hated that place," she said finally. "He hated everything about it." "The JDC?"

"Ricky called it the jungle. He always talked about quitting, but he never did. Just when he'd reach the breaking point, they'd come through with another cost of living increase, and he'd decide to stay. It was awful." She stopped talking, as though she had run out of steam.

"Did Ricky ever mention Nathan Bailey to you?" Jed asked.

Tears flooded Mitsy's eyes again as she leaned forward in her seat. "You know, I've asked myself that question a thousand times today. I heard about what that boy said on the radio, and I've driven myself crazy trying to remember the name, but it's just not there. I'm sorry?'

"You know, then, that Nathan said some uncomplimentary things about Mr. Harris. What do you think about that?"

Mitsy stewed for a long time before answering. She clearly had something to say, but she seemed unwilling to say it out loud. Jed just sat patiently, giving her all the time she needed.

When she finally spoke, she addressed Jed's shoes. "I wish I could tell you that killing one of those little bastards would be totally out of character for Ricky, but I can't. He hated them all so much. They'd never show him the respect he deserved. If somebody pushed him hard enough, well, anything could happen?' She faded away again, then stood up abruptly, startling Jed. "I need another beer. Do you want one?"