“Yeah, right. We’re not doing this ever again.”
The line went dead, and Harry placed the receiver on the cradle.
Jed was getting tired of feeling like he had entered this show in the middle of the third act. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Come on,” Harry said, heading for the door. “I’ll explain it in the car.”
Jed followed without thinking. “You think the kid’s uncle did all this?”
“No. But I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he knows who did.”
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.”
