Nathan's Run (1996) (41 page)

As he ran on, dodging people and ducking in and out of corners and alleyways, sweat poured off his body, soaking his tattered T-shirt, and lighting afire the pain in his ribs. When he thought it was safe to take a break, he ducked behind a Dumpster and sat down on an old milk crate.

Breathing hard through his mouth, he dared his first look at his side, where blood had begun to soak through his shirt in spots. The bullet hole in his T-shirt was through-and-through, a kill shot for sure if the shirt had fit him properly. Nathan gently eased the shirt over his head and laid it across his lap. By slinging his right arm over his head, he could get a good look at his injury.

It looked awful, a swollen purple mass about three inches below his armpit surrounding a gash in his flesh the width of a magic marker and the length of a birthday candle.

"Oh, my God, I've been shot," he said aloud, leaning against the Dumpster. The metal was hot against the bare flesh of his back.

The flow of blood had slowed to a trickle now, but a wide, crimson road map down his side and into the waistband of his shorts was testament to a respectable wound. The tear in his flesh hurt no more than a bad scrape, but he still couldn't bring himself to touch it. The real pain came from the area around the gash, which felt every bit as bruised as if he'd been kicked by something big.

He thought vaguely that he should feel more than he did, that being shot should be a more frightening experience. Maybe on a different day or at a different time. Today, though, it was just one more jolt of pain resulting from one more attack by one more grown-up who didn't understand anything.

Knowing it was time to move on, Nathan stood and slipped the Bulls T-shirt back over his head. It was filthy, smeared with blood and snot and road grime, and torn in a dozen places, not even counting the bullet holes.

Sorry, Tubbo, Nathan thought, remembering the huge closets and thick carpets of the Nicholsons' house, you probably won't want this back after all. The thought made him smile as he shoved his arms through the sleeves.

"Hey, you!" a man yelled from the back door of a restaurant. Nathan reacted instantly, dashing out of the alley without even turning to see who was shouting.

"Hey! You're that kid! You're Nathan Bailey! You get back here, boy!" The man, who was about fifty and had consumed way too much beer and pizza to entertain any serious notions about catching his quarry, nonetheless chased him as far as the sidewalk.

"Stop him!" the man yelled to no one in particular. "Stop that boy! That's Nathan Bailey, the kid that killed those cops!"

Half a block away, Pointer heard the shouting and was drawn to it like a beetle drawn to a sex lure. He was close and he knew it, but until he saw the old cook pointing frantically down the street, he had no idea just how close he was.

At about the same time that Sheriff Murphy received word from the SWAT team leader that the kid had left the Vista Plains Apartments, Nathan sightings began pouring into the Pitcairn County Emergency Operations Center faster than the call takers could keep up with them. Each sighting was sent out over the police net as an update, providing a reliable route of travel for the boy. Sheriff Murphy's job was to plot the sightings on a map in the command van and try and figure out how to get ahead of him. Initially, he assumed that he was getting the sightings in the wrong order, figuring that the last place a kid would go would be back toward the center of the town where his crimes had been committed. Sure enough, though, that's where he was headed.

"What's he trying to do?" Murphy wondered aloud, and finally the answer came to him. "Michaels, you son of a bitch!"

All of the news agencies monitored police frequencies, and reporters all over town plotted the same map that Murphy made. News vans joined the fleet of cop cars as they tried to close in on the fleeing boy. Overhead, news choppers from Buffalo and Syracuse TV stations followed the action from the air, the reporters and cameramen concentrating on the ground while the pilots concentrated on avoiding a midair collision.

The network affiliates had all been notified to stand by for a special report at any moment when the action got interesting. CNN was already showing live footage, even though there was nothing more to show than a lot of marauding police vehicles.

In Washington, D. C., a tiny television had been brought into The Bitch's studio at NewsTalk 990 so that Denise could track the events as they unraveled. She was prepared to give a play-by-play rundown to her audience regarding what was going down in Pitcairn County. During a commercial break, she told Enrique to air only those callers who were on the boy's side.

"We don't need any more fuel on this fire," she told him. Enrique assured her that the calls were running three-to-one in that direction anyway.

Once he'd reacquired his prey, Pointer moved through the crowd like a torpedo racing toward its target. He walked swiftly without running, steadily closing the distance between Nathan and himself. They were about fifty yards apart now, separated by just enough people that he couldn't take a clean shot.

The kid moved smoothly, clearly wanting to avoid being recognized, and clearly unaware that Pointer was so close. The Hit Man had decided to play the takedown as an arrest rather than just popping him on the street. He'd cuff the kid and haul him into "custody?' When they were alone, he'd do him where there were no witnesses.

The kid was fast, though. He'd have to wait until he was nearly on top of him to make his move. Pointer figured about three minutes more.

Then events took yet another unexpected turn.

Chapter
38

Nathan was getting close. He could see the obelisk in the distance now, rising above the heads of his fellow pedestrians. He walked among them as though he belonged, avoiding eye contact, and receiving none in return.

That guy behind the restaurant had unnerved him, shouting so loud. If the killer cop had been within a hundred yards, he would have heard that buttinsky shouting his name. Why couldn't people just mind their own business?

Someone grabbed Nathan from behind in a crushing bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off his feet. "It's all over now, kid! I gotcha!" All Nathan could see was a pair of beefy forearms across his chest. The pressure of the man's grip drove Nathan's elbow squarely into his bullet wound. The pressure and the pain made it impossible to take a whole breath.

"Let go of me!" Nathan yelled. "Help! Get this guy off of me!" He kicked wildly and wriggled in every direction. As the man's grip weakened, Nathan started to slip through his grasp. The man grunted and staggered back as a flailing heel found his kneecap. When Nathan drove the back of his head into the man's nose, he let go completely and staggered backwards. Nathan landed on his feet and coiled into a half-crouch, preparing to defend himself against the next attacker.

For a long moment, no one in the crowd moved as the realization hit them. Nathan heard his whispered name work its way through the crowd like The Wave at a baseball game.

"I didn't kill those people," he declared in a voice so soft that only the four or five people closest to him could hear it. "People are trying to kill me. Please let me be."

The big man on the ground groaned loudly and cursed the boy. "Somebody grab him!" the man yelled.

"No!" Nathan yelled. "Please, no. I didn't start this. He-"

"Just hold it right there, Mr. Bailey," a voice said from behind.

The sound of Pointer's voice made Nathan jump as though zapped with electricity. He whirled around, and there the killer was, still in his police uniform, his gun drawn and pointing directly at Nathan's chest. Both of them knew that he couldn't miss at this range.

The cameraman in the Action News helicopter was the first to notice the activity on the ground, about a block and a half frOm the square. It looked as if there were a fight in progress. When he zoomed in with his big telephoto lens for a better look, he saw that an arrest was being made.

"They've got him, Paul!" the cameraman shouted into the intercom. "They've got the kid! I'm getting the arrest on tape!"

Paul Petersen, the on-air reporter, darted to the monitor to confirm his cameraman's report, then radioed the station.

"It's going down right now!" Petersen exclaimed to the news desk. "Tell the network we've got a live feed of the arrest!"

A patrol car spotted Michaels at the base of the memorial.

Sheriff Murphy's plan was simple enough. Find Warren Michaels, keep an eye on him, and sooner or later, they'd have Nathan Bailey in custody. From the way the lieutenant had been acting, it only made sense that he'd arrange a meeting. And after Petrelli had explained the business about Michaels's son, the intense protective streak made sense as well. Clearly, the man had lost perspective.

Or such was the message delivered to Deputy Steadman. Now codenamed Sniper One, he'd been dispatched to commandeer a corner office belonging to an accountant on the third floor of the professional building across from the Lewis and Clark Memorial. From there, he would have a clear view of the area around the obelisk. For the last ten minutes, while Steadman had been on station, Michaels had done nothing but pace and check his watch. As Sniper One watched him through his ten-power scope, the detective seemed distraught. Steadman read that as proof that his party was running late.

Steadman had rehearsed this scene and dozens like it in his mind hundreds of times. After three years as a SWAT sniper, he'd been called out only once to prepare a shot, and that time the bad guy gave up without a struggle. Nonetheless, he knew he was ready, physically, psychologically and technically. He'd read everything he could find, and talked to many successful snipers, and shot thousands of rounds into all manner of targets-moving, stationary and partially concealed. He knew he'd be able to handle whatever came his way.

The thought of avenging his friends' deaths made it all that much easier. Steadman had seen firsthand how the kid reacted when he was cornered. He'd seen the gun on the seat of the car and he'd seen the gaping holes blasted through his buddies' heads.

Steadman wasn't fooled by Nathan's age. He knew what a criminal mind like that was capable of. The arrest was going down soon, and if the cop-killing bastard even thought about violence, Steadman was going to blast him straight into next month.

The sniper's nest sat back about six feet from the open window. Two phone books and an accounting manual stacked on top of the expensive wooden desk served as the rest for his beanbag rifle support. Steadman sat comfortably on the edge of a high-backed leather chair that he'd wheeled around to the front of the desk. He double-checked to make sure the safety was on and took care to ensure that his finger stayed out of the trigger guard before bringing the crosshairs to bear on Michaels's head.

The range was seventy-five to eighty yards, close enough that Steadman could put a round through the center of a dime. Though Michaels's head filled the sight picture, Sniper One concentrated on the single spot over his eyebrow where the crosshairs intersected: the no-reflex zone. He inhaled deeply, let out half the air and held it. He tightened his finger on the trigger guard.

"Pow!" he whispered, simulating the rifle's recoil. Piece of cake.

"He's the one, not me!" Nathan cried as he backed toward the circle of bystanders. "He's the one who killed those policemen!"

Pointer felt his face flush red. He wasn't used to performing his craft in front of an audience. He fought the urge to scan the crowd for its reaction, fearing that it would appear out of character.

"Get down on the ground, boy," Pointer commanded, gesturing with the muzzle of his gun.

Nathan shook his head frantically and tried to worm backwards through the line of people. They wouldn't let him through.

"I didn't do anything!" he yelled, his eyes pleading for someone to help. "Don't let him take me! He's the guy I talked about on the radio! He's the guy who killed the cops!" Still, no one made a move to assist. "You've got to believe me!"

A tall man dressed in a business suit stepped forward out of the crowd and positioned himself an arm's length from both the police officer and the boy, taking care to stay out of the line of fire. He wore his thick mane of gray hair slicked back in a pompadour and sported a neatly trimmed white beard. Nathan saw kindness in the man's eyes.

"My name's Albert Kassabian," the man said. "I'm an attorney. I think I have a solution to this problem:'

"So do I," Pointer hissed. "Mine is for you to stay the fuck out of the way and let me do my job." His eyes never left the boy.

"I don't recognize your uniform, Officer," Kassabian said smoothly. "Where are you from?"

Pointer felt his control slipping. These assholes were going to screw it up for him again. He should just take his shot now and make a quick getaway, but that would be stupid. If the crowd pounced, he wouldn't be able to fight them all off. He decided to play the charade one step further.

"I'm from Braddock County, Virginia," Pointer explained, "where this young man is wanted on a murder charge."

Kassabian nodded pensively, as though he'd been sold on Pointer's answer. "Tell you what," the attorney offered amicably, "let's just hold what we've got here until one of our own sheriff's deputies can come and make the arrest. That way, we won't have any jurisdictional improprieties."