John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Nathan refused to believe that those times were gone forever. If he worked hard, told the truth, and stayed lucky, he’d get another chance. To hear someone as hardassed as The Bitch say something nice bolstered his faith in himself, but more importantly, renewed his faith in other people. They weren’t all cops and lawyers and judges and supervisors. There were still people out there who were willing to listen. Not everyone made their living by calling you a liar, or gaveling you out of order when you tried to tell the truth. And if The Bitch could think nice things about him, and believe him, then maybe other people could do that, too. Even if he got caught, at least maybe now people would pay attention to what he had to say.

“Are you still there?” Denise prodded.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” Nathan paused again, gathering his strength to execute the plan that had flashed through his mind just an instant before. “I was just thinking about something. Do you think it would be all right if I asked the people listening to tell their friends that I’m really not a bad kid? And that I might need help? Maybe the news people could stop showing my picture all the time, so that I might be able to start over without everyone recognizing me?”

As Denise replied, her tone was all mother. “Honestly, Nathan, I think it’s too late for that. You’re already a news item, and I think you’re destined to remain that way until this thing is resolved. As far as people are concerned, they’ve already made up their minds about you, good or bad, but what they think really doesn’t matter. What matters to everyone, Nathan, is your safety. Whether they think you’re a good guy or a bad guy, I don’t think anyone wants harm to come to you.

“What worries me,” Denise continued, leaning on the words, “is the thought of you driving cars and running roadblocks, and just being out alone at night. You’re in very real danger every minute you’re on the run. Sometimes I think the safest thing for you to do would be to turn yourself back in, and let the justice system work for you.”

“The justice system got me into this,” Nathan snorted.

“It works for an awful lot of people.”

“Not for kids. Not for me.”

“Listen, Nathan…”

“I can’t go back, Denise,” Nathan said with finality. “I won’t go back. Not if they don’t catch me first. You don’t know what it’s like to be in a concrete box. You don’t know how it feels to be bent over a chair and held down by five people bigger than you while some asshole pulls down your pants in front of everybody and rams a broom handle up your butt…”

“Oh, my God,” Denise gasped.

“…or how it makes you feel when the supervisor laughs at you when you report it, or how the other residents beat the crap out of you for squealing on them.” Nathan was shouting now. “I killed Ricky Harris because he was trying to kill me! If I go back, somebody else is going to try again, and if I fight back and win, they’ll call me the murderer. That’s the way the system works, Denise. The grown-ups are always right, and the kids are always wrong, and no matter what you say, you lose. Don’t tell me I’ve got to go back there, because I won’t do it!”

Nathan slammed the phone down on its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again. And again, knocking the lamp off the end table and onto the floor. He stood there in the middle of a strange living room breathing heavily, his hands trembling. Suddenly he was alone. And it was quiet, so terribly quiet that he could hear his heart beating. In the silence, he could taste his anger and his shame and his sorrow. He was ready for a new dealer, because whoever was in charge of this game kept handing him piss-poor cards. But most of all, he felt terribly, terribly lonely.

Nathan desperately needed to do violence to something. He needed something to punch or to throw or to kick, but he was barehanded, barefooted, and in the home of a stranger whom he had no cause to harm. Like a caged animal, he paced around the living room twice, finally stopping dead-center in the middle. Clenching his fists at his side, he raised his face to the ceiling and shouted loudly enough to crack the plaster.

“SHIT!!”

Police Officer Greg Preminger thanked Sister Elizabeth for her assistance and walked back up the stairs toward the sanctuary. Greg’s daughter would be starting first grade in the fall, and he wanted to make sure that she was registered for the proper CCD classes—the Catholic version of Sunday school. A native of Jenkins Township, Greg had been going to Saint Sebastian’s his entire life. It was hard to believe that ten years had passed since Sister Elizabeth had taught him English during his senior year at Paul VI High School.

Because this mission was technically a personal one and he was still on duty, Greg was in a hurry to get back to his squad car before he missed a call. The dispatcher was carrying him 10-7, which usually implied a bathroom stop, but he’d been out of the vehicle for nearly fifteen minutes. It wouldn’t be long before they started to check up on him. He took the stairs two at a time.

As he got to his car, he noticed a fire engine red BMW convertible parked way off in the back of the parking lot. Interesting that he hadn’t seen it on his way in. Once back in the driver’s seat, he picked up the microphone and marked 10-8, back in service, then drove across the lot to check out the vehicle. Nobody had said anything at roll call that morning about a stolen BMW, and normally cars of that value got specific mention by the sergeant. There was nothing on his hot sheet, either.

He decided to let it go, but when he got back to the main road, he had a change of heart. It was just a damned suspicious way to park a good car. He returned to the Beemer and called in the license number, just in case.

Patrolman Thompkins was waiting in Michaels’s office when Warren Michaels arrived, and jumped to his feet at the sound of the opening door.

“Sit,” commanded Warren, in exactly the same tone he would have used for a dog.

Harry sat, his back perfectly straight, his butt barely on the seat. The man looked scared to death, and Warren had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. From the outside, there was no trace of a smile, only the glare that so many police officers had witnessed at one point or another in their careers. It was a look of disgust, of disapproval. No first offender ever knew if there was an undercurrent of anger, because so few had ever seen Lieutenant Michaels angry. He was one of the good ones. And if he was disappointed in you, then by God the entire department was disappointed in you.

In Warren’s mind, the ass-chewings for which he had become so well known were never ass-chewings at all. He never raised his voice—well, rarely—and it was always his intent to end sessions such as this on a positive note. When he took the time to pencil these meetings onto his calendar, he always used the term “attitude adjustment session.”

Warren leaned way back in his squeaky vinyl chair and folded his hands across his chest, his elbows perched on the armrests. As he glared at Thompkins, the young officer made a valiant attempt for about five seconds to hold his own, but quickly looked down to a spot on the lieutenant’s desk. Warren let him stew in the silence for a full minute before he said anything.

“So, you’re our radio star, eh, Thompkins?” he asked evenly.

Harry’s head snapped up, and his eyes locked on to Warren. He was ready to take what was coming to him like a man. “Yes, sir,” he said firmly.

“Your career’s important to you, isn’t it, Thompkins?” Warren leaned forward and made quite a show of opening the other man’s personnel file while he spoke.