Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Keeping a nervous eye out for Fido, he inched down the hill and zoomed in with the binocs on the back door, barely visible through the wide mesh of the security screen. Single pane framed with a thick wooden stile. Though he couldn’t confirm it from this distance, it seemed the edges of the pane bore a dark strip, a Plexi-coating that would indicate bulletproof glass. A latch protector extended past the doorknob and overlapped the frame, guarding the bolt from a credit-card lift; that, and the visible hinges, meant the door was outswinging. The knob itself housed a series of locks with immense key slots, probably custom-made.

He would have expected nothing less from the Stork.

The bulletproof pane looked in on a laundry room and another locked door, this one solid. Two shiny circles on the second door suggested standard locks, probably pick-resistant Medecos. A shimmering of metal near the doorknob indicated a wraparound mag plate to reinforce against jimmying. Tim would’ve put money on both doors’ having reinforced strikes, long screws to beef up the plates against a kick-in.

He certainly had his work cut out for him.

He was just pulling back when a light clicked on deeper within the house, revealing a dining table overburdened with keyboards and computer monitors and surrounded by a copper-mesh cage. The Stork shuffled into sight, wearing a pair of baby blue pajamas, entered the cage, and plopped down in front of the cluster of equipment.

Tim lay in the darkness, his eyes resting on this man who had played a part in his daughter’s dismemberment. He felt his heartbeat in his fingertips, his ears; his entire skin seemed to move to the heightened pulse. He pictured the Stork behind a telescopic lens, calmly focusing as Kindell stumbled out from his shack, Ginny’s blood across his thighs to…what? Bay at the moon? Breath the crisp air? Catch his breath for continued sawing? The Stork wouldn’t have cared; he’d have taken apart his camera lovingly, nestled its parts in foam, collected his paycheck.

The Stork typed for a few moments, then paused to rub out knots in his cramped hands. Through the well-barred window, Tim briefly watched him resume work before withdrawing back up the hill.

It took him nearly ten minutes to extract without tripping any alarms or crossing any lenses. He sat in his car a few blocks away, plotting, regretting he’d given up dipping tobacco again, since he felt like working something over physically to mirror the activity in his head.

Though he was competent with a pick and a torsion wrench, he had none of the Stork’s finesse or training. He didn’t stand a chance against those locks.

Finesse would have to go out the window.

•He paid cash at the Ace Hardware counter, spending most of what Dray had given him. The checkout woman, an old biddy with the rough hands of an inveterate gardener, whistled over a strapping coworker to help Tim get his purchases out to his car. Tim waved him off, loading up the equipment in an enormous black duffel bag he’d pulled from an overstuffed wire bin in Aisle 5.

“Must be a hell of a project.” The woman’s breath smelled of Polident.

Tim hefted the bag up on a shoulder. “Yes, indeed.”

•Moving along the prescribed path through the Stork’s front yard was trickier with the bulky duffel in tow, especially in the full dark of night. There was no way he’d get through the dueling motion sensors at the side of the house, and he didn’t have the patience or tools to size out a mirror to bounce the IR beam back on itself. Instead he pulled a small shaving mirror from the bag, shattered it, and deflected the beam with a shard momentarily so he could smear Vaseline over the housing.

After some tedious creeping and hauling, he reached his post in the hillside. The effort and the heavy vest left him damp with sweat. Down below, the Stork was still working away in his blue pajamas at the computer. He appeared to be talking to himself. After a few minutes Tim heard the shrill ring of a telephone, and the Stork picked up a cell phone from the table but seemed to get no response. He shook his head, realizing he’d grabbed the wrong line, and set the cell phone back down. Rising from his perch behind the monitors, he walked into the adjoining kitchen.

Tim checked the bag to make sure everything was accounted for and well arranged, then began a silent descent to the back fence. He clipped a small canister of mace to his belt, checked his gun, and removed a length of blanket insulation from the bag. The Stork was visible in the kitchen, sitting on a stool, sipping juice through a straw and leaning to talk into the speaker of a wall-mounted phone. He fussed the cap off a bottle and took a few pills, continuing to massage his arthritic hands as he spoke.

Taking took a deep breath, Tim heaved the duffel over the fence. The grass cushioned its landing, but still he heard a startled movement within the doghouse. He unfurled the blanket insulation over the concertina wire and scrambled over the fence as a Doberman streaked toward him, snarling. He hit the ground, reaching for the mace as the dog took flight in a long snarling leap. He got off a blast and ducked the dog as it sailed into the cloud, growl already turning to whimper. The dog rolled on the ground, pawing at its eyes, emitting a drawn-out whine like a horse’s whinny.

Tim shouldered the bag and began a jogging approach to the back door. He crowbar-torqued the security screen, which popped with a satisfying clang and swung out on its hinges. He dropped to a knee, pulling gear from the duffel. As he fitted his electric drill with a wide circular bit, he heard movement within-the Stork’s scrambling approach.

The Stork pushed through the laundry-room door and stood, watching through the back-door window. “Mr. Rackley, I’m glad you found me, since I couldn’t find you. Robert and Mitchell have gone completely out of their heads.”

“Open up and let’s have a talk.”

“Somehow I’ve been implicated, but I-”

“I know you were involved. I know you picked the lock for them at Rhythm’s.”

“I was just going to say, Robert and Mitchell coerced me into helping them. I didn’t want to, but threat of death and whatnot. I did it with a gun to my head. I told them I’d never help them again.”

“I also know you were involved in my daughter’s death.”

The Stork’s entire body sagged, his shoulders rolled forward, his head dipped. “That wasn’t my idea. Or my choice. I tried to warn them off, told them it could only come to-”

“Where are they? Where’d they take Kindell?”

“I haven’t been in touch with them. I swear, Mr. Rackley. I don’t know where they are.” The Stork’s eyes went to the Doberman, still rolling on the lawn far away at the back fence. “W-what did you do to Trigger?” His breathing quickened. “God, my house, how did you…?” He shuddered. “Why should I trust you any more than them?”

“It ends here, Stork. You come clean with me. And the authorities.”

“I won’t let you in. I won’t be turned in.” The Stork’s squeaky voice did little to disguise his panic.

Tim raised the drill. With a grating whine, it eased through the bulletproof glass, leaving a neat hole the size of a coaster next to the handle side of the wood stile. Next he revved up a pistol-grip saber saw.

“You’re making a terrible mistake!” the Stork screamed.

Tim released the trigger, let the noise from the hammering blade fade to silence.

“I have dirt on you, Mr. Rackley, or don’t you care?” Drops of sweat ran down the Stork’s cheeks, having originated somewhere high on his bald head. “You were the actual assassin. I was just the tech guy. If you turn me in, I spill, and your life is over, too.”