John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

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.

As soon as Mark saw the news on television, he knew what had happened. And though he allowed himself a brief moment to feel vindicated by the failure of a “professional” killer to finish the job he’d paid Ricky to do so long before—could it possibly be just three weeks?—Mark knew the bottom line of what had happened last night. Pointer was not the kind to shoulder the blame himself. No, he’d want to share the glory with a friend. Even through the haze brought on by the recent death of yet another bottle of cheap bourbon, the swollen mass at the end of his arm reminded him of just how giving Pointer could be when he was in the mood to share.

Upon draining the last of the bottle, Mark made a pact with himself to sober up enough to make a plan. If history was any judge, he knew he’d be coherent again in a few hours. Meanwhile, he thought he’d engage in some serious introspection.

My God, he thought, what have I become?

Street-smart survivor that he was, it was not a question he often allowed himself. For thirty-three years, Mark had had to live off his own wits, thoroughly lost in the shadow of his perfect brother Steve. A year ago, when he was pressing charges against Steve’s progeny, it brought a smile to Mark’s face just to think of what Mr. Perfect Lawyer/Businessman/Class President would have been thinking as he watched the fruit of his loins treated with exactly the same respect that Mark had become accustomed to.

The look on the runt’s face as he was escorted from the courtroom to the jail had said it all. Why me? Nathan’s eyes had pleaded. Because I said so, Mark’s smile had replied. The look on the judge’s face had been a different matter entirely. The look of pure contempt had made Mark feel oddly recharged, contented. Brother Steve had been a star among the sanctimonious assholes who called the courthouse their office. And there they all stood, powerless, while Mark the Survivor sent Perfect Steve’s kid to the hoosegow. Revenge felt sweet and thorough.