Nathan’s Run

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.

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.

It had all seemed so simple then. Who could have guessed how complicated it would all become?

None of it was his fault, of course. If he’d gotten the same respect from dear old Dad that Steve had, then Mark would never have had to seek quick cash. When his old man told him that his inheritance was contingent upon finishing college, Mark never thought for a moment that he was serious. As much of a cantankerous old fart as he was, Mark never dreamed that he would disinherit his own blood for something as trivial as a piece of paper from some snotty ivy-covered building. But he’d been serious, indeed. Serious as a heart attack.

When the old man died, his will became cast in iron, unchangeable. Steve had everything. Mark had nothing. Even Nathan got a big chunk, but not Mark. Nope, he was just a doormat, and who ever heard of leaving money to a doormat?

But then, Steve had always been the talented one. No one could suck up to the old man quite like old Steve-o. Butt-buddies to the end.

Yes sir, Dad sir, I’d be happy to shit all over Mark, sir.

What, sir? Mark got a “C,” sir? Why, that’s terrible, sir. Have you seen my straight A’s, sir?

So Steve and his seed got all the money and Mark got fucked. What else was new?

Once, when times got tough, Mark actually tried a little sucking up to the master himself, but all he got from his dear rich brother was a lecture on how he should get some “focus” in his life. Shithead.

Instead of sharing, Steve invested everything in real estate and in his practice. Then, two months after the real estate market collapsed, Steve-o became Jell-O at a railroad crossing.

When you’re a survivor, you become adept at finding the opportunity hidden in the disguise of adversity. Now that there was a new orphan in the world, Mark had naturally figured that there would be money to support him. Dear old Dad’s money at that. The irony was delicious.

Except there was no money. Steve-o’s fortune had evaporated when real estate collapsed, and Nathan’s funds were tied up in a trust managed by some hotshot lawyer in New York. Even Nathan couldn’t touch the money until he was eighteen. The kid whined constantly, grew like a weed, and ate nonstop. That all cost money. Lots of money. Old Steve-o would have done well to concentrate more on the present than the future. An insurance policy would have been nice. Sure, there was that one policy for a quarter-mil, but that went pretty fast. That was when Mark was in his pimping era. Nasty little business, managing whores. Bad crowd, too. For the life of him, he had no idea where all the money went.

The real cash, he found, was in the import business. Through some friends, he came to meet people who knew people. If he could cough up $500,000 and make a trip to Colombia, he could be set for life. That five hundred thousand could become five million, and with $5,000,000 in the bank, Mark could be anything he wanted to be. Poor alcoholics were bums; rich alcoholics were eccentric. All he wanted was respect.

That’s where Pointer and Mr. Slater entered the picture. Mark had heard about their “bank” through street sources. It took all the salesmanship he had to leverage the cash—a thirty-day loan at 20 percent interest. But what was a hundred grand when you were looking down the pipeline at five million?

On May 27th, his hired pilot took off in a hired airplane to make the buy that would make Mark a rich man. When the son of a bitch failed to return, Mark’s troubles began in earnest. Some speculated that the pilot was killed in a sudden storm over the Gulf, but Mark knew better. He knew that somewhere someone was spending his five million dollars, having never had to invest a penny of his own money.

Thirty days to the hour after he had borrowed the money, Pointer showed up at his door demanding payment. In retrospect, Mark knew that he should have told the truth in the beginning, but it just was not his nature. He stalled for time. There were some problems getting the stuff cut, he explained, smooth as silk, and Pointer gave him an extra day. Even Mark thought it sounded like the truth.

But the clock kept spinning. His plan was to withdraw the last of his insurance money—twenty thousand dollars—and offer it up the next day as a down payment.

By the thirty-first day, though, Pointer had discovered the lie, and when Mark offered the twenty grand, Pointer laughed like it was the funniest joke he had ever heard. No, it wouldn’t do, he said. Suddenly the Hit Man had lost all interest in why Mark couldn’t repay his debt, replaced instead with a well-developed plan to introduce Mark to whole new worlds of pain. Kidneys seemed to be an especially favored target, though Pointer was equally talented with gut punches. And when he drove that bony knee of his into your balls, well, that was a really special adventure, too.

The beating lasted off and on for the better part of a half-hour before the Hit Man said anything of substance.

“You know, Mark,” he had said, lounging back on Mark’s sofa as he methodically unwrapped a stick of gum, “I did a little research on you, buddy. You come from money. It pisses me off that you’ve got millions in the family, yet you expect Mr. Slater to believe you can’t pay back a mere six hundred thou. Oops, this is Thursday, isn’t it? Make that six twenty-five. Now, before I rip out your windpipe, you want to tell me why you’re holding out on us?”

Though a month had passed, Mark still felt the pain of that afternoon; how new jolts of agony would self-generate from various bruised organs without Pointer laying another hand on him. He could still remember the Hit Man’s exaggerated patience as he waited through the whole story of his banishment from the family. When Mark was done, Pointer had seemed genuinely disappointed that there really was no choice but to cut his throat.

It was the sight of the straight razor that made Mark think the unthinkable.

There was a way, he’d gasped hurriedly as Pointer prepared for surgery. Mark had remembered a clause in his father’s will—a paragraph that had caught his eye years before, during the first reading. Dear old Dad had established a trust for his grandkids, of which Nathan was the only one.

Valued at just over three million dollars, the trust was supposed to send the grandkids to college and then to give them a jump-start on their lives. But there was a back door. As he lay there on the floor, sucking in carpet dust, he’d been able to remember the clause with perfect clarity. Looking back, he felt ashamed.

“In the event that any grandchild dies prior to his thirtieth birthday and prior to having completed an accredited course of study as defined in Paragraph 8(A)(c)(ii) above, the bequeathed amount shall be distributed to the child’s father, or, if such distribution is not possible for whatever reason, said share shall be distributed among my surviving progeny, per stirpes.”

When the unthinkable had first occurred to him in the lawyer’s office, Mark had seen the potential, but Christ, he’d have had to kill the whole family. Nobody needed money that bad.

Not until you’d spent some time with a pain expert, anyway. Jesus, that razor looked sharp.

It turned out that Lyle was a survivor, too, with a keen eye for his own pocketbook. Within a minute of hearing about the backdoor clause, Pointer had developed a plan. Mark would be allowed to live a while longer, for the sole purpose of killing his nephew and taking delivery of the inheritance money. Pointer, meanwhile, would shelter Mark from the wrath of Mr. Slater in return for a $200,000 fee.

The details were left up to Mark, but Pointer made it clear that he expected a clean job. Recognizing that details can be expensive, he had even returned the twenty grand down payment.

The rest had been shockingly simple. Mark found Ricky by following the guards as they left the JDC at shift change and gathered at the Woodbine Inn for drinks. They were not a happy lot, bitching constantly about every aspect of their jobs. Of all the guards, a young skinny one named Ricky Harris was the most vocal.

“I’d do anything to get out of that fucking place,” he’d said.

Mark bought Ricky a drink. Over the course of the evening, Mark bought him a lot of drinks. It was nearly midnight when Mark made his pitch. All Ricky had to do, he explained, was kill the kid and skip out of the country. Twenty thousand dollars went a long way in some parts of the world. As luck would have it, twenty grand was more money than Ricky Harris had ever seen in one place, and with that much cash up front, he didn’t seem especially bothered by the prospect of killing one of the worthless pukes under his care. When he found out that the target was that pussy Bailey, he seemed thrilled.

And so it had started.

As Mark now sat alone in the sweltering heat of his soon-to-be-repossessed house, he marveled at just how wrong everything had gone. The stack of legal ‘sheets’ strewn on the table served as yet another monument to his shitty life. And in the sureness of his own approaching death, he grew terrified of his appointment with hell. Somewhere deep within his self-pity, there was even a growing tumor of remorse for what heed forced Nathan to endure.

He was pulled from the past by a knock at his front door. He was frightened at first, until he realized that it was impossible for Pointer to have gotten back so soon. He considered for a moment that it might be a cop. In his stupor, he was unable to decide if that would be good news or bad.

By the time Mark staggered to the door, the visitor had grown impatient, pounding with his fist.

As he swung the door open, a large man, maybe six-three, stood silhouetted against the brilliant white background. Mark winced in the wash of sunlight.

“What do you want?” Mark demanded.

The man stepped in without being asked. “I came to talk to you, Mark,” the man said. “Mr. Slater sends his regards?’