Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“A shove.”

“It was supposed to go down easy. Kindell picks up Virginia, we bust in, cap his ass before he so much as touches a hair on her head. We save her, deliver her back to you in secret. We tell you the system let a child molester off the hook three times and placed him right there in your sunny little neighborhood. We tell you he had designs on your little girl-designs that would have been fulfilled if things were just left up to the system. We tell you we’re guys with a plan, and since that plan just saved your daughter’s life, why don’t you come to a meeting?”

“I’m overcome with gratitude and, after subsequent bonding, I join the Commission.”

“Something like that.”

“You put my daughter in the hands of a convicted child molester.” The venom in Tim’s voice must have set Robert back on his heels, because he took a few moments to respond.

“Look, I’m sorry it went down that way, but desperate times and all that. Rayner was looking at Kindell closely since he’d gotten off for his priors-the insanity-plea bullshit, a loophole that made him a potential Commission target even before Ginny. Rayner did the profile on him. He wasn’t a killer. None of his priors took that turn. We thought we’d just approach him, say, ‘Hey, here’s a girl you might like. Grab her and keep an eye on her, don’t do nothing till we show.’”

“Didn’t work out that way, did it?”

“No it didn’t. And after, we figured Kindell would wind up in jail. We were gonna try to use Ginny’s death to pull you aboard, but when he got off because of the deafness…well, shit, that made you a sure thing. Hey, man, life gives you lemons…”

“Then you slowly win my trust, Rayner doctors up Kindell’s case binder so I’m convinced Kindell acted alone, and we vote to execute him. I do the job. I clean up your mess, the one remaining witness.”

“Right. Once we off Kindell, there’s nothing linking us to Ginny. Or to anything around the Commission. It’s just your word against ours.”

They had no idea that Rayner had taped their call from Kindell’s. A sound escaped Tim, a creaking, eerie laugh that caught him off guard.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“You’ve become just like them. This plan of yours, it led you to kill a girl. A seven-year-old girl.”

“Don’t put that shit on our heads.” Robert’s voice rose, to the verge of yelling. “We don’t own what Kindell did. That wasn’t what we wanted.”

From the beginning Tim had tried to understand the Mastersons’ odd mix of resentment toward Tim and horror over Ginny’s death. The resentment was guilt gone bad; the horror was their own revulsion at having her blood on their hands. He recalled Mitchell’s words on the telephone: We were gonna cut you a break, leave you be. Part of us figures we owe you.

“Well, Kindell’s gonna pay now,” Robert said. “We’ll do him for you. It’ll be a statement, even, to this hellhole of a city. A little…”

“-tribute-” Mitchell’s muffled interjection.

“-for all the other pukes out there to see. The first step of the next phase, our phase. It’ll say, ‘We got him. And you’re next, motherfucker.’”

“I can’t let you do that.”

Robert’s voice was shot through with intensity and menace. “Are you really gonna fight to save the life of the man who killed your daughter? This piece of shit deserves to die.”

Kindell’s image came to Tim quickly and vividly, as it always did. The crop of fuzzy hair, so much like animal fur, capping the flat forehead. The wet, insensate eyes, devoid of emotional comprehension. He thought of the relief Kindell’s absence from the world would afford him. At the moment he could imagine nothing more disagreeable than extending himself to save his life. “I happen to agree. But that call isn’t ours to make.”

“Oh? He’s bleeding here in Mitch’s hands. So tell me, whose call is it if it ain’t ours?” He chuckled. “And lemme warn you while we’re at it-we know you’re double-dealing with the marshals. Any sign of any car, we cap Kindell and shoot our way out. And believe us, we’ll know. We got our ears to the ground.”

Tim looked at the radio scanner on the chair.

“You forget, Rackley, we surveilled you for the better part of a year. We know when you were toilet trained. We knew how you’d react when Ginny died, how to fold you right into the Commission. We predicted you and played you like a fucking board game. We go head-to-head, you’re gonna lose. We know you, Rackley.”

“Like you knew Kindell?”

“Better. We operated side by side with you. Next time we see you, we’re gonna break it off in you.”

“Vivid image.”

“Don’t get in the way of what we’re accomplishing here.”

“Your righteousness is a joke,” Tim said. “And if you think I’m gonna leave this city at the mercy of you or your brother, you’re even more deranged than I thought.”

Robert let out a sharp hiss of disgust.

Tim’s rage narrowed to a single point of calm, the eye of the hurricane. “I’m coming for you.” He raised his pistol and shot the telephone. It shifted and crumpled a bit. No sparks, no flying shrapnel-it was far less satisfying than he’d anticipated. He stood a few minutes in the quiet kitchen, waiting for his anger to burn itself out.

Clicking through the radio scanner’s settings confirmed his worst suspicions-the Stork had managed to get ahold not only of LAPD tactical frequencies but also those of the marshal duty-desk radio, which corresponded with all deputies in the field. The radio echo he’d heard over the telephone meant that the Masterson boys-wherever they were-were well apprised of in-progress law-enforcement movement throughout the city. He couldn’t know if Bear’s cell-phone frequency was also being monitored; for the time being he’d have to assume that any communication with the authorities would tip his hand.

Returning to the dining room, he finished glancing through some of the Stork’s oddly animated inventions before turning his focus to the copper cage. No keyboard vibrations going anywhere through that thing.

He leaned over and stared at the bizarre jumble of words on the computer screen.

“What the hell?” he murmured.

Letters scrolled across the screen as if they’d been typed: what the hell

Tim found the outpointed microphone atop the monitor and spoke into it. “You’re a speech-to-typing program.”

The screen responded again: you’re a speech to typing program

He scrolled up the screen. It had picked up the majority of his conversation with Robert in the kitchen, though only his own utterances.

I’m quaking in my still echoes he’s dead you have kindle

The speakerphone must not have been loud enough for the mike to pick up Robert’s responses.

He scanned up farther, taking in the Stork’s frantic remarks to him through the bedroom door, the computer hypothesizing about unclear words: please just go I’m sorry I tried two shoot you missed her rackety I can’t go with you and bereft I can’t

Scrolling all the way to the top, Tim discovered that the Stork had turned on the speech-recognition software to compose a letter.

Joseph Hardy

P.O. Box 4367

El Segundo, CA 90245

Dear Mister McArthur,

I do have an interest in your recent shipment of young adult original classics, particularly Tom Swift and His Megascope Space Prober, 1962, and Tom Swift and His Aquatomic Tracker, 1964. I am only interested if they are near mint or better. The last book you shipped to me, The Radio Boys’ First Wireless, was badly yellowed hello hello Robert doughnut use this lie I tolled you the new foams are clear your second payment was off buy too hunter I counted it twine I’m out I doughnut car this has gotten crazy since mister rackety leek too the press I wow leaf my house you done need me for survey lands the money mint is clear at night good line of site done the kill on all side I’m not coming especially too night too much heat no surrey and even if Ida considerate it would cost you more than that hang on Jesus hang on mister rackety I’m glad you fund me since I could nut find you