John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

“Listen, Quinn,” Denise said, “what do you say I hang up on you and chat with Nathan for a little while?”

“Of course,” Quinn said agreeably. “You’ve got a great show, Bitch. Keep up the good work. And Nathan, you be careful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

“So, have you been listening to the show this morning?” Denise asked. “You’re quite the celebrity today.”

“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t,” he said, his tone genuinely apologetic. “I’ve been sleeping.”

“Well, I don’t wonder:’ Denise laughed. “I guess doing all that laundry tires a boy out, huh?”

Nathan’s bowels turned to ice. “What?” he gasped. His voice was cold as stone. How did she know? How could…

“You didn’t see the press conference either?”

Press conference? What the hell is she talking about? His mind raced to put the pieces together, but they weren’t there. He said nothing.

“So you don’t know!” Denise announced, clearly tickled to be the one breaking the news on the air. Talk about great radio! “Your hosts from last night—the Nicholsons—came home this morning and found some things missing. Like a car. They also found your note.”

Nathan’s heart began to race. His hands were shaking. This wasn’t going right. Not the way he had planned it at all. He didn’t think they’d get home so soon. And if they got the note, then how come everyone knows? He asked them specifically…

“CNN had you tagged this morning as the world’s favorite burglar,” Denise explained. “It’s hard to think bad thoughts about a kid who does laundry.”

Nathan still didn’t see what was so funny. It was great that people thought nice things about him, but what did that matter? What it really meant was that the cops were still only a few hours behind him. How long could it be before they found the Beemer, especially if they were looking for it? The good news was that people didn’t go to church in the middle of the week, and the car wasn’t visible from the road.

It’ll be okay, he thought, calming himself down. I only need a few more hours.

A thousand questions flooded his mind all at once. He needed to get caught up fast on what everyone else knew. So he started asking.

Lyle Pointer watched the press conference live from his living room as he slowly and methodically reassembled his just-cleaned .357 Magnum. The Nicholsons looked like they had stepped out of Little House on the Fucking Prairie. Steve looked like the ex-college football star type, probably a quarterback or maybe a kicker. Kendra, no doubt, was the drooling cheerleader, though Pointer was willing to bet that she’d put on a good thirty pounds since they were married.

The kids were like all other kids, nondescript. Both had dark hair and dark eyes. Jamie, the older of the two at maybe thirteen, was clearly thrilled to be on television, though like his mother he could’ve afforded to drop a few pounds. His sister, Amy, was about nine, Pointer figured, and far too shy to say anything to the reporters.

Considering the work that had to be done, Pointer was none too pleased with the attention the Bailey kid and his antics were getting in the media. The more people watched, the tougher it was going to be to whack the kid and get out. But he had done tough hits before, and within a day or two this business would be done and Mr. Slater would be off his back. And the reporters, God love them, would have plenty to report.

The very fact that CNN had chosen to carry the Nicholsons’ comments live spoke volumes about how out-of-control this media frenzy was spinning. The questions were all shouted at once, and each family member would take a shot at giving a rambling, disjointed answer consisting mainly of incomplete sentences. Jamie, in particular, was intent on getting his two cents’ worth in at every conceivable opportunity, and nearly beamed with pride that America’s criminal du jour had chosen to dress himself in his clothes.

Yes, they said, Nathan had broken into their home through the French doors in the back. Except for clothes and the car, nothing appeared to have been stolen, though he had consumed three frozen pizzas. From what they could tell, Nathan had slept in the master bedroom and showered in the master bath, and believe it or not, he had washed all the linens and towels and re-made the bed before he left.

When Jamie described the pile of bloody clothes in the downstairs bath, a huge flurry of enthusiastic questions followed, which only served to confirm that the family didn’t have any real details to share.

Then Kendra read the note:

Dear Mr. amp; Mrs. Nicholson and Kids, I hope I got your name right. It was the one on your Time magazine. I’m sorry I broke into your house. I tried to be careful, but I broke a window out of your back door. I cleaned up the glass, and when I get the chance, I’ll be happy to pay you back.

You have a really nice house. You have the best TVs I’ve ever seen. Please tell your boy that I had to take some of his clothes. Please tell him thank you and I’m sorry. I found some laundry and I did it along with the sheets I slept in last night. I didn’t use any bleach because I’m not very good with it and sometimes people don’t like it.

I also had to take your other car. I’ve drove before and I promise I’ll be really really careful. So don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to tell you where it is when I’m done.

You probably figured out by now that I’m in pretty bad trouble with the police. I did some bad things but it’s not like they think, honest. If it’s okay with you, please don’t call them for a day or so or maybe even a week after you find this. I really will take care of your stuff.

Your friend, Nathan Bailey, sorry about the mess in the bathroom. Its pretty grose.

As soon as Kendra raised her head from the page to signal that she was finished reading, the media mob erupted with new questions. She answered them as best she could, with Jamie’s perpetual help. The note had been left on the kitchen table. It was written with a ballpoint pen on plain notebook paper. No, the paper in her hand was not the original, and she didn’t know if the press could get a copy; they’d have to talk to the police. On and on it went, simple answers to inane questions, until a single inquiry from the local paper rendered her silent.

“In the note, Nathan asked you not to call the police for a couple of days, yet you called them right away. How does that make you feel?”

Kendra blushed and looked to Steve for help with the answer, but he was preoccupied with the detailed study of a fingernail. Even Jamie fell silent.

Pointer laughed out loud. “Ha! Shut you up, didn’t she, bitch?” He was still smiling as he turned his gaze down to his work and slid six Hydra-shock Magnum rounds into his weapon and squeezed the cylinder home.

He knew he’d get the break he needed soon. Now he was ready for it.

Michaels left the Nicholsons’ house in a rush to get back to the station in time to pass along to Patrolman Thompkins the County Executive’s best wishes, and to excavate a new asshole in the young officer’s butt. Whether or not Thompkins had any kind of a career left would depend largely on how he took his ass-kicking. If he copped an attitude, he was done.

As Warren pulled out of the driveway, reporters flocked to his car, shouting questions that he pretended not to hear. They tried to block his progress by pressing against the vehicle, a tactic they often used, on the assumption that their prey would stop to avoid the risk of running someone over. Obviously, they didn’t know Warren well enough. At this stage of this investigation, he’d have welcomed the opportunity to flatten a reporter, though it proved unnecessary. He just kept rolling along at a snail’s pace, with the windows rolled up, until they finally chose to save their feet and stepped out of the way.