Nathan's Run (1996) (18 page)

Monique hugged him from behind and kissed his ear, crossing her forearms under his chin. "Now, you go easy on him. It wasn't so long ago that you were a stupid rookie."

"I was never that stupid," Warren grumped.

"Oh yeah? How 'bout that time you shot at yourself in that lady's house?"

Warren's head sagged even further. He laughed. He reached up and rubbed the back of her head as she rested her forehead on his shoulder. "You just don't forget anything, do you?" That incident had occurred fifteen years before, when he was in the process of tracking down a prowler in an old woman's house. As he swung into the bedroom in a full crouch, he saw a man crouched down on the other side of the door, aiming a pistol directly at him. Not until Warren had squeezed off three rounds did he realize that he was facing down his own reflection in a full-length mirror. The woman nearly had a heart attack, and he was suspended for a week while Internal Affairs did an investigation. Worst of all was the merciless ribbing to which he fell victim for years after the incident. Unbeknownst to him, the ribbing continued to this day, only now it was always behind his back.

"Tomorrow should be interesting," Warren said, changing the subject. "I understand Petrelli's taking the radio station to court tomorrow with an emergency petition to compel release of the telephone records:'

"Do you think it will work?"

"Hell, no, not a chance. I'd pay a thousand dollars, though, just to see Petrelli get trashed one more time in front of the cameras. The only good thing about my day today has been the thought of how really shitty a day he's had."

Monique slapped his arm playfully and stood up straight again. "You're terrible," she scolded. "What happens if the judge says no?"

"Then we're left with plain old police work. I think the kid's holed up somewhere. He can hang loose for a day or two, but sooner or later he'll have to move, and when that happens, he'll start leaving another trail. That's when we'll get our next good shot."

Monique came around the chair and kneeled down in front of her husband, resting her elbows on his knees. "Do you think he killed that guard-or supervisor, or whatever-in self-defense?"

Warren shrugged and closed his eyes. "Doesn't really matter right now. He still has to go back."

"But what do you think?"

"Honestly? In my heart of hearts?"

"Yes."

"I really don't care. I think it's a red herring, something I have no business thinking about. At least not until we get him back in custody and he goes to trial for killing the supervisor. The escape and the murder are separate issues."

From out of nowhere, their conversation was interrupted by the thunder of footsteps coming down the stairs. "Daddeeee!" His seven-year-old, Shannon, turned the corner into the living room at full tilt, and vaulted into his lap, followed closely by her sister Kathleen, two years her senior. A round of hugs and kisses followed, along with a couple of tickles.

"You're home early!" Kathleen proclaimed, genuine delight twinkling in her eyes. "Mommy said you wouldn't be home till late."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I probably shouldn't be home till late, but I just couldn't stand the thought of not tucking you two characters into bed for a second night in a row." He kissed her on the cheek.

"Can I ask you a question, Daddy?"

"Any time at all."

"Are you trying to put Nathan in the electric chair?"

Warren shot a look across to Monique and got a shrug in return. Incredulous that his daughter considered herself on a first-name basis with an accused murderer, Michaels leaned back in his chair and gently repositioned his older daughter on his lap so that she was facing him directly. "What kind of a question is that?"

"I was playing with Benny Parker today, and he said that you were going to kill that boy on television by putting him in the electric chair."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him that he was a liar, and then I popped him in the nose.

Warren laughed in spite of himself. "Kathleen!" he scolded, embarrassed by the pride he felt at his petite little girl punching a kid the size of Benny Parker. "You can't hit people just for saying something you don't like."

"It is a lie, isn't it?" From the look in Kathleen's eyes, Warren suddenly was not sure who was scolding whom.

"Honey, they don't put children in electric chairs."

"So what's going to happen to Nathan?"

Warren fought the temptation to lie. It would have been easy to give her a fairy-tale answer, but he had long believed that truth was the only way to maintain credibility with his kids.

"That's really not for me to decide, Kathleen. That's why we have courts. My job is to arrest Nathan and bring him back to the Juvenile Detention Center so that a judge can decide what ultimately happens to him."

"But Nathan says that people tried to kill him in the Juve .. . whatever that place is. Are you going to send him back to that same place?"

Warren looked to his wife for some help. Monique gave it a try. "Kathleen, sweetie, this boy Nathan isn't like boys in your school. He was in jail for stealing, and he killed a man to get out of jail. That makes him a bad guy. And bad guys go to jail."

"The kids don't think he did anything wrong," Kathleen protested.

Warren's patience for all of this suddenly evaporated. "Well, he did do something wrong!" he erupted, far more loudly than he had intended. "He killed a man, and you can't go much more wrong that that! My job, Kathleen, whether you like it or not, is to put murderers away in a place where they can't harm other people. Just because he's a kid doesn't make him any less dangerous!"

Both girls fell silent and slid down off his lap, disappearing back upstairs. Kathleen looked as though she might cry; whether for herself or for Nathan, he couldn't tell. When the children were out of sight, Monique returned to Warren's shoulders and started massaging them.

"Did I overreact?" Michaels asked.

"Mm-hmm," she replied, leaning over to gently bite his ear. "You always overreact when you lose your sense of humor. Remind me in a couple of hours and I bet I can help you find it again."

It was nearly ten now, and it was dark, inside as well as out. Nathan put the finishing touches on his note to the Nicholsons-he'd found his hosts' name on a magazine-and walked from the kitchen into the garage. His stomach was in a knot again, but he knew there was no turning back now. The one thing he needed more than anything else was distance between himself and the JDC. The fulfillment of his need lay just on the other side of the garage. The seat and the steering wheel were already adjusted, and he'd killed an hour or so in the afternoon memorizing the locations of all the important levers, switches and buttons, so that he could make the BMW do as he commanded, even in the dark.

On the outside chance that he might do something stupid, such as locking the keys in the car, he'd kept them in his pocket all afternoon. He moved cautiously now, in the dark, as though someone might be home, even though he'd been in and out of the garage a dozen times that day. He winced at the click the car door made as it opened, and was startled when the inside light came on. He moved quickly, the better to get the door opened and shut without anyone seeing him. Once comfortably in place in his seat, he fastened his seat belt, held his breath, and started the engine. He'd barely turned the key when the motor roared to life. He reached up and pushed the button on the sun visor to raise the garage door, working quickly, because he had seen in a movie once that you can die if you run the car engine indoors.

With the movement of the door came an explosion of sound and light, a stark contrast to the otherwise still evening. Nathan was certain that every neighbor in a two-block radius was on the phone calling to report the theft of the Nicholsons' automobile. As the garage door reached the top of its climb, he slipped the BMW into reverse and turned in his seat to guide himself down the long, steep driveway. When he turned, though, all he could see was leather head rest. He jammed on the brakes and lurched to a halt. The stupid car wasn't built for twelve-year-olds. How was he going to see where he was going?

It took a moment for him to reason that once you've broken into somebody's house and stolen their car, it really didn't matter a whole lot if you drove over a bit of their lawn. He let the brakes slip again, and he slid further down the driveway, pausing halfway to lower the garage door again. Nervous glances out both sides of the car revealed an empty street-clear passage for him to begin his journey in earnest. When the back wheels bottomed out at the end of the driveway, he cut the wheel hard, slipped the transmission into Drive, and gently stepped on the gas. The Beemer lurched forward to the end of the street, then lurched to a stop at the stop sign, flinging Nathan against his seat belt. He remembered from his previous driving adventures that steering wasn't the hard part, really. The tough part was making the car move smoothly. But he'd gotten the hang of it before, and he was confident that he could do it again.

While he'd plotted his trip carefully on a Rand McNally map he'd found in the glove compartment, he still didn't know exactly where he was, and now he was faced with his first critical choice. He could go left or right. The lady or the tiger. On the logic that left and lady began with the same letter, he turned left in hopes of finding the road that would lead him out of the neighborhood.

After about ten minutes, and only one real mistake in navigation, he found himself on the Cannonball Parkway, whose name he recognized from his months with Uncle Mark. He knew for sure that the Cannonball Parkway intersected with Prince William Road, not too far from where Uncle Mark lived. From there it was a straight shot out to Route 66, which in turn would take him to Route 81, and from there north toward Canada. The digital compass in the Beemer displayed SE, and he was once again faced with a left-right decision. Knowing that he ultimately needed to head west before he could go north, he turned to the right. Happily, the SE disappeared from the display and was replaced with w. He beamed with pride.

The Beemer handled smoothly, and he felt well in control of the vehicle, except a couple of times when the road turned sharply at the same time the headlights from an oncoming car hit him in the eyes. After another fifteen minutes or so, the scenery along Cannonball Parkway began to look familiar to him. On the left was Oliver Wendell Holmes Middle School, the last one he had attended before becoming a ward of the state. About a mile up the road, he knew, was the intersection with the 7-Eleven and the McDonald's, marking the road that led to Uncle Mark. Just sharing the same air with that place brought back memories he'd hoped he'd never face again.

Drunk son of a bitch, Nathan thought. I hope you drown in your own puke someday.

As he neared the intersection, traffic slowed considerably, and finally stopped. In the distance, the night was alive with the strobes and light bars of emergency vehicles. Nathan's first instinct was to turn around and head the other way, but there was no way to cross the median without drawing all kinds of suspicion. It was probably just a traffic accident, anyway. Nobody was going to notice him.

It took another quarter-mile of bumper-to-bumper backup to confirm his worst fears. This was no accident. This was a roadblock, just like they had described on the news. Cops in brown uniforms were stopping every fourth or fifth car to shine a flashlight around and talk to the driver.

"Oh, God," he prayed aloud, "please don't let them stop me."

Hoping to stay as invisible as possible, Nathan had chosen the left lane. Without moving his head, he glanced over at the driver to his right. Even in the darkness of night, that driver was fully recognizable. Blond hair and mustache, maybe twenty-three years old, with a mole on his left temple.

If I can see him, they can see me, Nathan thought. He felt his heart gain speed, and he gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his fingers go numb. "Stay in control;' he told himself again, out loud, for perhaps the hundredth time that day. "Sometimes the best place to hide is out in the open."

He felt like he was living out his only recurring nightmare, where he was naked in school and everyone was laughing, but there was nothing he could do to cover up. People were all around him, any one of whom could end his flight with a single word, but none of them were looking yet. Up ahead, the very people he feared most were planning to shine a flashlight in his face and throw him back in jail. All day long, he'd carefully planned this night, but he hadn't allowed for the scenario unfolding in front of him. Like the house alarm and the call tracing, he'd figured that it was useless to worry about such things that he couldn't change. If only he'd known.

In Nathan's lane, twenty-three cars and two motorcycles stood between him and the roadblock. Six cars were let through without being checked, leaving seventeen in front of him. His hands were moist with sweat now, and his legs were shaking so badly that he was concerned whether he was going to be able to control the car.

Please, oh, please God, he prayed, silently now so as not to attract attention. Please let me get by them. Please don't stop me now. I'll be good, I swear I will. I'm sorry for every bad thing I've ever done. Please let me get through.

Tears tried to well up in his eyes, but he willed them away. Whatever happened, it was going to happen quickly, and there would be no time for that kind of emotion. In the next round, the cop let only three cars through before he searched the fourth. After that, he let five through. There seemed to be no pattern; he just stopped cars at random. If it didn't end soon, Nathan thought, his heart would explode right out of his chest. Wouldn't that just startle the living daylights out of the policemen?