Michaels smiled, the anger gone. "Wonderful civics lesson, Sergeant Hackner. Can I quote you on camera?"
Hackner smiled back. "Sure, why not? It's only a career."
Michaels checked his watch. Ten forty-eight. Through the drawn venetian blinds the night glowed like noon in the glare of the television lights. Michaels stood. "Come on, Jed," he said. "Time to go feed the birdies."
Chapter 5
Twelve miles from Brookfield, in the farthest southwest corner of Braddock County, Mark Bailey sat Indian-style on his torn Naugahyde sofa, nursing the last three inches of his bottle of generic bourbon. The only light in the house emanated from the stove and the television. It seemed important that he remain in the dark, out of sight. He avoided windows. He didn't want to be seen, not tonight. He just wanted this dirty business with Nathan to be over and done with so he could get on with the rest of his life.
Until forty-five minutes before, the bottle in his hands had served as his monument to conquering alcoholism. He had bought it four years before, on his twelve-month anniversary of sobriety. He had long since fallen off the wagon, of course, but until tonight, he could never bring himself to open that bottle. That would mean admitting failure, and Mark Bailey was nobody's failure.
But Mark Bailey had done a terrible thing this night. Maybe he wasn't a failure, but he was certainly no one he could respect. For three weeks now, he had known that after tonight, self-respect would forever be pushed into his past.
And what the hell, it was only a bottle of booze, for Chrissakes. Nothing more, nothing less. All that symbolism crap really didn't mean a thing.
Events of the night notwithstanding, Mark had felt well under control, until the face of Harry Caruthers appeared on television for the teaser to the eleven o'clock news. "Murder at the Juvenile Detention Center. Details at eleven." Those nine words, delivered in just under five seconds, confirmed for Mark that it was all over; that he had been granted a new lease on life, albeit at the expense of his immortal soul.
He was surprised at just how much that religion crap had been weighing on him recently. The word pictures painted by the nuns and priests of his past lived on in his mind, pictures of fire and torture and misery. Unspeakable pain for all eternity.
That was the thought that sent him searching for his monument to sobriety.
His first toast was to his dear departed brother, Steve. Old Steve-o. Mr. Perfect Life, Perfect Kid, Holier-Than-Fucking-Thou, Pain-in-the-Ass Steve-o. "Sorry it had to end this way, bro, but you didn't leave me much to work with."
For Mark, the first priority had always been survival. Even as a child, adults and peers alike had pronounced him street smart. That meant he was a survivor. He'd dealt with every bit of adversity life had handed him, and moved on to conquer another day. That's what life was all about: getting knocked down, and pulling yourself back up again. When Social Services dumped Steve-o's hatchling on his doorstep, he'd first seen it as just one more turd on the shit pile that was his life. But then, eventually, he even turned that into opportunity. Like turning straw into gold.
The longer Mark lived, the better he got at beating the odds. It was just that the price kept getting harder to pay.
Now that this Nathan thing was done, though, and his blood was warmed by alcohol, Mark felt damned philosophical about it all. One day he'd go to hell, he supposed, but what the fuck.
There's nothing you can do about it now, old sport. No sense dwelling on the past.
As the opening credits for Action News at Eleven flashed across the screen, Mark finished the last of the bottle. If his timing was right, he'd pass out just after the report on Nathan was over.
As always, Harry Caruthers was first with the lead story: "Law-enforcement officials are stunned this evening by the brutal murder of a staff member at the Brookfield Juvenile Detention Center. Twenty-eight-year old Child Care Supervisor Richard W. Harris was found slain at around nine o'clock this evening by a fellow staff member. The suspected killer: a twelve-year-old boy who subsequently escaped from the facility, and is currently at large. John Ogilsvy is live in Brookfield with a report. John, what do we know about the details?"
Mark Bailey's first thought was that the bourbon had mushed his brain. What he thought he had heard was simply unthinkable. Trying to blink his head clear, he slid onto the floor and scooted closer to the television, forcing himself to concentrate on every word.
The screen changed to young John Ogilsvy, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt and tie. The lighted facade of the Juvenile Detention Center served as his backdrop.
"Well, Harry, the details at this moment are still rather sketchy, but as you can imagine, police and detention center personnel are scurrying like crazy to pull this case together. Sometime between seven and eight-thirty this evening, staff member Ricky Harris was stabbed repeatedly while making his rounds in the facility.
"Mr. Harris's body was found by another staff member in a cell occupied by a twelve-year-old car thief named Nathan Bailey, of Braddock County." An institutional photo of Nathan, full-face and profile, dominated the left-hand side of the screen, while the other side displayed a smiling Ricky Harris.
"All we know for sure is that Nathan Bailey has escaped, though it's safe to assume, I believe, that he is the primary suspect in the murder as well. Residents of the area are advised to double-check their locks this evening… "
This was un-fucking-believable. "You son of a bitch," Mark hissed through clenched teeth. "SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!" He heaved the empty monument through the picture tube, instantly drenching the living room in darkness.
How could this happen? Mark reeled, wishing distantly that he could drain the numbing alcohol from his veins. It was so simple, like shooting birds in a cage. How could Ricky have fucked it up so badly?
Mark tried to stand, rising to all fours, but tumbled to his side like a fallen buffalo. There he lay, panting, cursing unintelligibly under his breath.
"You shoulda let him do it, Nathan," he moaned. "Harder on both of us…" His brain clouded. "The guy they send next won't be as quick."
His last coherent thought before slipping off into a stupor was that the street-smart Mark Bailey might not survive this one after all.
Chapter 6
High beams washed over Nathan's face, startling him awake. For a long moment, he was disoriented, unable to piece together the bright lights, the wetness, the smell of dirt, the sense of fear. The headlights blinded him as they came closer, only to pause in the driveway in front of him. The characteristic rumbling sound of a garage door opener followed next, with the headlights disappearing from view a moment later into the garage.
A scant four feet to his left, separated only by single layers of plywood and vinyl siding, car doors opened and closed. Conversations continued uninterrupted. "Look, Chris," a woman's voice said, "isn't that sweet? Suzie's sound asleep. Can you carry her in while I unlock the door?" A male voice responded with a single syllable. More sounds of movement; another car door opening and closing. The male voice softly sang, "Shh, sweetheart, go back to sleep. Daddy's going to take you right to bed. Shhh." The garage door rumbled shut again.
Through it all, Nathan lay perfectly still, half expecting to be yanked from his hiding place by his collar. As seconds passed, and then minutes, he allowed himself to relax. If they'd seen him, they'd have done something by now. He cursed himself for having drifted off.
Three minutes later, the light on the garage door opener cycled off, once again flooding his hiding place with darkness. The street looked completely different now. Most of the houses were dark. No one moved about. The neighborhood was asleep. It was time for him to make his move.