Nathan's Run (1996) (37 page)

Jed laughed. "I've known Lieutenant Michaels a long time, kid. Trust me, if you leave the meeting able to stand, he's not pissed."

Thompkins was overcome with a sense of respect and warmth that he had never before felt on the job. Michaels could have had his ass fired, and no one would have said a thing. Instead, he ordered him by name to be put on the most visible case of the year-hell, of the decade.

Jed laughed again. "Christ, Harry, don't look so stunned. He was a rookie once. A pretty stupid one, at that."

Harry smiled. "The mirror?"

"Yep, the mirror."

"So that actually happened?"

"Sure did. Took him years to recover the ground he lost that day."

Harry couldn't shake his feeling of incredulity. "I guess I owe him one."

Jed clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Yes, you do," he said jovially. His mood turned suddenly serious. "Now to the business at hand," he said. "The lieutenant wants us to swim upstream on this case. Wants us to prove that somebody has a contract out on the Bailey kid; that that's the reason Harris tried to kill him. We've got bank records on Ricky that show a twenty-thousanddollar deposit three weeks ago and then a total withdrawal of all funds the morning he was killed. When we're done there, he wants us to show that the cops in New York were killed by a hit man, not by Nathan. We're both convinced that Nathan was the intended target."

"A hit man?"

Jed nodded. "Makes sense, really, if . . . "

"Holy shit, that's it!" Harry proclaimed, cutting Jed off in mid-sentence.

"What's what?"

Harry didn't answer. Instead, he picked up Jed's phone and dialed information.

"Braddock Hospital, please," he said after a short pause. "Emergency Department."

Tad Baker hadn't given the Bailey matter much thought since he had last spoken with Harry Thompkins. When he heard that the police officer was holding for him, it took Tad a minute to piece together their last conversation.

"Hi, Harry," he said cheerfully as he snatched up the hand set. Harry was all business. "Tad, you remember our little talk the other day?"

Tad shrugged. "Uh-huh."

"You remember our rules of engagement? Say nothing if you agree and . . . "

"Yeah, I remember," he interrupted, none too comfortable about walking the ethical tightrope on an open phone line.

"Okay, I've got one more theory for you. You ready?"

Tad looked around casually. No one was within earshot. "I sup- pose?'

Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, here goes. I think that Mark Bailey's fingers were broken intentionally, by someone intending to do him harm."

There was a pause. Tad said nothing.

"And I think that to do that, the perpetrator would have to be one sick son of a bitch."

Another pause. More silence.

"Like maybe a hit man."

Tad didn't say a word.

"Are you there, Doc?" Harry asked at last.

"Yeah, I'm here, but I've really got to go," Tad said hurriedly. "Thanks a million, Tad," Harry said, genuine affection in his voice.

"Yeah, right. We're not doing this ever again."

The line went dead, and Harry placed the receiver on the cradle.

Jed was getting tired of feeling like he had entered this show in the middle of the third act. "What the hell was that all about?"

"Come on," Harry said, heading for the door. "I'll explain it in the car."

Jed followed without thinking. "You think the kid's uncle did all this?"

"No. But I'll bet you a hundred bucks he knows who did."

Chapter
34

Lyle Pointer had endured just about as much of Nathan Bailey as Li he could stand. His face was everywhere: front page of the newspaper, the morning news, the evening news, every fucking place. Now the son of a whore was on the goddamn radio again.

As he replayed the fuckups from the night before in his mind, Pointer absently rotated his wrist, trying to work some of the soreness out. What he needed was some aspirin for his throbbing head and arm, but he refused to give in. The dull pain helped him focus on what he had to do.

One way or another, Lyle knew that he himself was a dead man. Even if Mr. Slater didn't have him whacked outright for bungling such a simple fucking job, without the old man's tacit protection, Pointer's countless enemies would stand all night in long lines just for a chance to take him out. It was the curse of being good at your profession.

Faced with his own mortality, he found himself surprisingly at peace with it all. Mr. Slater had a business to run, and the kind of sins Pointer had committed made it very difficult to conduct that business. But if the old man thought that Lyle was just going to saunter on into a trap-if he thought that he was just going to write off this Bailey kid and then make a suicide trip into the paws of Slater's attack dogs-well, he had another think coming. Lyle had a job to do, and that job was right here in Pitcairn County.

Lyle had thought a lot about death over the years. It was his business. It was his future. Hell, it was everybody's future.

He'd always had a premonition of how his own end would come. In his fantasies, it was always a gallant thing, perhaps taking the bullet meant for his boss, propelling himself into the special company of heroes among villains.

Now there'd be no heroics, only shame. He could hear the mocking laughter now as his rivals pissed on his grave. Lyle Pointer-the Hit Man-beaten by a little boy.

Nathan Fucking Bailey had robbed him of his honor. A punk kid had made him a laughingstock. Who'd have ever thought it was possible?

One thing was for goddamn sure. The little bastard wasn't going to be around to share in the laughter.

Until now, killing had always been business. Suddenly it was personal. And Lyle was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Where does a kid go when he gets driven underground by the cops? he thought. His first two nights, the punk had time to scope out his hiding places. But this morning was different, wasn't it? He had to work fast. He'd get out of the business district quickly; head for the boonies. Would he take a car? Maybe, but he always had keys before. Hot-wiring was a lot harder than television led people to believe. Pointer was willing to bet that the kid didn't know how to do it.

That meant he had stayed on foot. How far could he go on foot? Depends on how long he ran, doesn't it? Young kid like that, in good shape, could probably run forever. He didn't run forever, though, did he? Hell, no, he's on the radio right now!

Pointer prided himself on his sense for things like this, and he knew that the kid was close. If only he could pinpoint where.

The telephone. The radio. The link was there somewhere. What was it that he'd read in the paper? Not the part where the idiot prosecutor couldn't get his way, but something else. Something about that witness in Pennsylvania. He worked for the phone company, didn't he? Yes, by God he did! Bastard said he felt "terrible" that he hadn't put the pieces together sooner. Poor fool seemed to be really beating himself up over dropping the ball on identifying the kid when he saw him.

A plan started to form in Pointer's mind. The witness-Todd Briscow, there it was, right in the paper-probably would do just about anything to assuage his guilt, wouldn't he? Given an opportunity to redeem himself-say, to cooperate with the prosecutor's investigation-Pointer was by God certain that old Todd would just jump at the chance. If not, well, Lyle had made a very good living at being persuasive.

Pointer figured it would take five phone calls to get the number he needed. It only took three.

To his considerable relief, Todd had discovered that his friends and coworkers were much easier on him than he was on himself. Rather than chastising him for his failure to act, he was widely praised for being so responsive. "Heads-up thinking," and "community watchdog" were two of the terms used by his supervisor to describe his actions.

In fact, from such a low starting point, Todd had begun to feel right proud. A lesser man might have done nothing at all, he told himself. It took a certain community spirit to get involved at all. And if he hadn't done at least that much, God only knew where that pint-sized murderer might have gone.

By noon, Todd Briscow had come to recognize his role for what it really was: the critical element that solved the Nathan Bailey case. And who would have thought that the boy could have traveled so far so quickly?

When his secretary told him that the prosecutor's office from Braddock County, Virginia was on the line, he donned his most officious expression and nearly strutted into his office. He closed the door and lifted the receiver.

"This is Todd Briscow, how can I help you?" he said smoothly. To Pointer, the other man sounded like a panting dog. "Mr.

Briscow, this is Larry Vincent from Mr. Petrelli's office here in Braddock County," Pointer lied. "How are you today, sir?" "Very well, thank you."

"I wanted to say on behalf of Mr. Petrelli just how appreciative we are of all your assistance in helping us solve our problem with Nathan Bailey."

Todd giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, it really wasn't much at all,"

he gushed.

"Like heck it wasn't," Pointer gushed back. "If it weren't for the efforts of people such as yourself, we'd never be able to get a handle on crime in our communities." For a full two minutes, Pointer lauded Briscow's sense of community and his dedication to his fellow man. The thicker he laid it on, the more willing Todd seemed to hear it.

It began to get a little embarrassing. "Well, I certainly appreciate your call:' Todd said at last, trying to end the conversation. "And tell Mr. Petrelli thank you for being so thoughtful."

"I'll certainly do that:' Pointer acknowledged. "You know, before I lose you, I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Certainly," Todd said. "I like to do my part."

Pointer chuckled at Todd's magnanimous understatement. "As well you have proven. We need your help just one more time."

"Tell me what it is and it's yours."

Pointer told him.

Todd didn't know what to say. "Mr. Vincent, I'm sorry, but that's not possible. You know yourself . . . "

"Oh, now, Mr. Briscow, I don't think you're seeing the complete picture," Pointer said smoothly. The smile remained in his voice, but with a decidedly sharp edge. "We have to bring Nathan Bailey back into custody, and you hold the key to finding him."

Todd earnestly wanted to help, but this was just out of the question. "Mr. Vincent, look at this from my point of view. I could get fired. Besides, the court already decided . . . "

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Briscow," Pointer interrupted again. "Your point of view really isn't important to me right now. The greater good of society is at stake here."

"But you're asking me to break the law!"

Pointer donned -his most condescending tone and took a deep breath. "Think about how ,many laws you break every day, Mr. Briscow. There's the speed limit, maybe one drink too many before you drive. I'll bet even one or two of your tax returns aren't all that they might be."

Todd was angry now. These analogies were absurd. "Perhaps you're right, Mr. Vincent, but what you're suggesting is orders of magnitude beyond . . . "

Pointer broke him off again. "Mr. Briscow, think what life would be like if every time you drove your car, someone was there waiting to write you a ticket for doing one mile an hour over the limit.

Think what it would be like to have every one of your tax returns audited, starting from seven years ago. You know, even a few dollars adds up over seven years, what with interest and penalties . . . "

Suddenly, Todd realized that he had no options. He was furious. "How dare you blackmail me!"

Pointer winced at the term. "Mr. Briscow, you have nothing to fear unless you have broken the law. And if you've already broken the law, what's one more time?"

The full spectrum of emotions flooded Todd's mind all at once: anger, fear, loathing. This pompous jerk-a lawyer, no less-was forcing him to violate the law by leveraging his fear of having violated the law! It was ridiculous, but what choice did he have but to go along? What an incredible twist this hero business had taken!

Pointer correctly interpreted the silence as Todd's acquiescence. "Very well, then," he said. "I'll give you thirty minutes to gather the information I need, and then I'll give you a call back. Is that all right?"

"No, it's not all right!"

"Do it anyway." Pointer's tone was flat, leaving no room for negotiation. "I'll call you in exactly a half hour. And Mr. Briscow?" "What?"

"Time is of the essence in this matter. You don't want to get on my bad side."

Todd stared at the dial tone for a long time. Deep in the pit of his stomach, he had the feeling that he'd just been threatened with more than legal action.

Mark Bailey just wanted the agony to be gone-both mental and physical. Hearing Nathan's voice again on the radio had him balanced on the very edge of his sanity. He had to hand it to the little guy. He had the luck his Irish ancestors had intended for him.