palate, into his brain stem, where every command to every body system ceased instantly.
The giant keys to the detention cells sat heaped on the desk, in clear view, in front of three security camera monitors. Pointer smiled and shook his head.
These hayseeds have no idea what security means, he thought. Glancing around to make sure no one was near, he watched himself on the TV monitor as he leaned over Watts’s body and hoisted the keys with a finger, taking care to leave no footprints in the blood.
Another two minutes, and he’d be done.
The sound of approaching footsteps confirmed Nathan’s worst fears. His breathing came in quick gulps, like a panting dog’s, and he was feeling light-headed. Why are they doing this to me? His mind raced frantically, but there were no answers.
This wasn’t Ricky, and it wasn’t Uncle Mark. Whoever this guy was, he was no drunk; he was a killer with a silencer on his gun, and he wanted Nathan dead badly enough that he was willing to kill a cop to do it.
What did I do?
There was no time for thought, only for action. He had to be ready for a fight, no matter how unlikely it was that he’d win. He needed a weapon. If only one of the bricks would come free…
“Naaathan,” a voice sang from the hallway.
It was the most frightening sound Nathan had ever heard. A weapon. There had to be a weapon…
“Nathan Baileeeey! Olly Olly, oxenfree!” Pointer laughed.
Shit! SHIT! Maybe I can lift the bed… The bed! The wonderful, broken goddamn bed! Nathan darted two quick steps to the cot and snapped free the broken leg. It wasn’t very big, but it was heavy. It just might…
A key slipped into the lock in the heavy door. Klunk.
Oh, God!
Nathan dashed silently back to the hinges, using the door’s huge wooden panels as a shield. He saw the gun first. It came in quickly and made the turn, as though the intruder knew exactly where he was hiding. Nathan brought the cot leg down with both hands in a giant overhead arc onto the gun. It was the hardest he had ever swung at anything in his life, and it felt every bit as though he had impacted concrete, a shock wave reverberating through his arms and into his shoulders.
The pistol clattered to the concrete, but didn’t go off. His first strike having been perfect, he recoiled for a second blow, but checked his swing and gasped audibly when he saw that his attacker was a cop!
What…
Pointer sensed the hesitation and saw his opportunity. He lunged at the boy.
Nathan got in a second shot, but it was all arms-no power-glancing off the man’s shoulders just enough to unbalance him a bit. Nathan used the momentum for another home run swing to the side of his attacker’s knee. Pointer went down with a snort, but never broke eye contact.
“Who are you?!” Nathan shouted.
Pointer didn’t answer, but instead reached for the pistol on the floor.
Nathan screamed, “Don’t!”
Pointer didn’t hesitate for an instant. With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, he snatched the gun into his hand and brought it around, preparing to shoot through the A-frame of his armpit.
Nathan saw it coming and changed from home run hitter to woodsman, coming off his feet as he two- handed the makeshift baton down onto the back of Pointer’s head. The “cop” collapsed so thoroughly and quickly that Nathan thought for sure he’d killed him.
He panicked. “Oh, God, I’m sorry!” he cried. “Why’d you do that? You made me do it! Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry!” It was like the JDC all over again. “Goddamn you!” he screamed, his shrill voice echoing through the empty hallway. “Why’d you do that?!”
When Pointer stirred, Nathan nearly cried with delight. He hadn’t killed another cop after all! A bigger, infinitely more important question remained, however: Why were so many cops trying to kill him? And why were they killing each other?
He had to get out. Again. He had to run. Again.
What the hell is happening?
The hallway was clear, the doors all open. He considered that it might be a trap, but dismissed the fear as irrelevant. He couldn’t stay, so he had to leave. If it was a trap, then they had him. That was that; end of story.
His Reeboks squeaked as they tried to dig into the linoleum floor to propel him up the incline. To his right, he glanced at the bloody heap on floor and hoped silently that it was the asshole who had wracked his balls. Nathan didn’t even slow his stride as he plowed into the crash bar and threw open the front door of the police station and dashed out into the waiting night.
His flight from the JDC had been filled with fear and hesitation. Tonight, there was only the need to run, fast and hard.
Somewhere in all that darkness lay his future.
Chapter 28
“Jesus Christ!”
The exclamation startled Pointer back to consciousness. His head felt like someone had lit a fire behind his eyes. That fucking kid.. .
“Sarge! Oh my God!” Schmidtt’s voice was nearly a sob. He drew his weapon and chambered a round. “Steadman!” he called. “Steadman, are you here?”
Pointer reoriented himself in an instant, and formulated a plan. He couldn’t believe that it all had become this complicated. “Steadman!”
The new addition to the evening’s cast was an unwelcome intrusion, but Pointer could handle it. Just another bullet, that’s all. He needed to draw the new cop into the cell somehow. Easily enough done. Pointer groaned loudly. It took no effort to sound convincing.
Little shit could have had a career ahead of him in the big leagues, he observed, trying to blink away the lingering fuzziness in his vision.
Schmidtt ran the distance to the open cell in seconds, his footsteps stopping just out of sight beside the opening. After what Pointer thought a ridiculously long hesitation, Schmidtt swung into the doorway, crouched into a two-handed shooting position.
His expression said it all. Who the hell are you?
Pointer sat propped up against the far wall, his head lolling against his chest. He moaned again for effect, even as he noted the bulge of the cop’s chest protector through his uniform shirt. Head shot it is, Pointer thought.
Schmidtt nervously scanned the room for the perpetrator who had done this to his fellow police officers. If he had even the slightest suspicion of the stranger on the floor, his eyes showed none of it. In fact, he looked entirely relieved to find that whatever danger there had been had passed him by. The tension drained visibly from his shoulders as he straightened and approached his fellow police officer.
The moment Schmidtt holstered his weapon, Pointer brought his to bear. “Looking for me?” he said as he squeezed off a single round.
The bullet entered Schmidtt’s head squarely at the crease of his lips, and sent him sprawling backwards into the hallway.
“Brilliant police work,” Pointer chided, holding his aim for just a few seconds to make sure there was no movement before holster ing his own weapon.
Such a simple fucking job, and from what anyone would be able to tell, he was no better at it than the slob Bailey had hired to make the hit. Goddamn kid was slippery. And fast. Pointer was surprised by the effort it took to rise to his feet. He never did get a good look at what the kid used for a bat, but he admired the skill and guts it took to use it so well.
Mr. Slater was not going to be happy. Dead cops always brought more scrutiny than they were worth, and
