Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

The computer approximation of the Stork’s dialogue to Tim through the back door continued, winding up with stork stork stork what the hell you’re a speech to typing program.

Clearly the software had to be guided with additional audio commands to render sentences meaningfully; the Stork had ceased overseeing it when he’d gone into the kitchen to answer the landline. The farther he’d been from the mike, the less faithfully the program had transcribed his inadvertently recorded dialogue. His speech impediment probably hadn’t helped much either.

Tim picked up from hello hello Robert, trying to figure out the sentence breaks: doughnut use this lie I tolled you the new foams are clear-so far, so good.

The Stork had reached for a cell phone first when the phone had rung in his house. Remembering that he’d set it back down on the table, Tim searched and found it behind a stack of discarded keyboards. He scanned through the programmed names. Only two: “R” and “M.”

Pocketing the phone, Tim turned his attention back to the screen: 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

Tim got stuck at the money mint is clear at night

He pulled a pad over and jotted down variations.

Money man. Money print. Munitions.

And the following sentence-good line of site done the kill on all side-was no clearer.

Good line of sight to the kill from all sides?

He dropped the pen and thumped the notepad in frustration, his hand leaving a dirty imprint. He decided to move on.

The next few transcribed sentences were much easier to interpret:

I’m not coming especially too night too much heat no surrey and even if Ida considerate it would cost you more than that

Tim scratched his hairline with the end of the pen. Whatever the specifics, Robert and Mitchell were planning to kill Kindell tonight. Tim reflexively glanced at his watch: 11:13 P.M. The Mastersons had presumably called the Stork because they were ready to enact the next step in their plan; Tim didn’t have much time to intercept them.

The Stork’s reaction to the sound of Tim’s interruption followed next on the screen: hang on Jesus hang on

And then his first words to Tim: mister rackety I’m glad you fund me since I could nut find you

Tim returned to the first problem noun, “the money mint,” no doubt the key.

What would be clear at night? Did the Stork mean “clear” as in “safe,” or “clear” in the visual sense? Probably “safe,” since in the sentence before he was arguing that he wasn’t needed for surveillance. What would be clear at night? A place of business. A public place. An actual mint? A planned robbery didn’t seem to fit. Done the kill. Down the hill? Money man clearance?

Tim studied the reddish mark he’d left on the notepad-the smudge of his palm, four finger streaks barely visible. The stain should have been a brownish mix of dirt and grease from the tools, but the dust that had come off on his hand from the Stork’s boot had colored it almost auburn. money mint

Where had he seen dirt that shade? done the kill the money mint is clear at night

The slap of delayed recognition. The buzz of adrenaline. Tim bolted to his feet, forgetting the aching in his stomach. The chair rolled back lazily across the room and hit the wall.

Robert tilted his face back and shot a stream of cigarette smoke at the moon, two patches of dirt coloring his denim jacket at the elbows. money mint. Monument.

The monument is clear at night. Good line of sight down the hill on all sides.

I’ll tell you what would make a good memorial. One guilty and unconvicted fuck swinging from each branch. That’s what I’d like. That’s the kind of memorial we oughta build for those victims.

At tomorrow’s first light of day, downtown L.A. would have a grim silhouette greeting it over the skyline.

It’ll be a statement, even, to this hellhole of a city. A little tribute for all the other pukes out there to see. The first step of the next phase, our phase.

Working quickly, Tim defused the booby trap in the hall, cutting the trip wire and writing an immense warning on the floor with the Sharpie. He resisted the urge to spend time figuring out how to reach Bear through a secure line. Whatever chance he’d have of bringing this conflict to a nonviolent resolution-admittedly slim-would be lost with flashing lights and a marshals-LAPD barricade. A stealth approach was likely necessary to save Kindell’s life.

On his way out, Tim stopped to retrieve his jacket. The Doberman approached him and nuzzled his hand shyly, its eyes red and submissive.

Tim eased down the tiled corridor and slid into Room 17, checking the door numerals against the crumpled slip of paper in his hand. Bowrick sat cross-legged in bed, blanket drawn around his shoulders like an Indian chieftain. He started, then pressed his hand to his chest, relief washing across his face. “Can’t you ever knock like a normal person?”

Tim tapped his lips with his index figure and gestured for Bowrick to follow. They made their way out the back entrance, the silence broken only by the admitting nurse’s humming in the lobby.

They’d driven two blocks before Bowrick spoke. “Man, you’re just in time. Nurse Needlestick’s been foaming at the mouth, wanting insurance cards, asking billing questions, all kinds of crap. For the forty-eight-hour hold, you’re free and clear, then they Grand Inquisition your ass.” He glanced up as a green freeway sign floated overhead. “Where we going?”

“You still have your Monument Hill access-control card?”

Bowrick fumbled his key chain out of his pocket and held up the card.

“The two guys who tried to kill you are there. They’ve got a hostage, who they’re planning to hang from the tree. I’m gonna surprise them. I need you to brief me on the monument.”

Bowrick let out a pensive whistle, then chewed his bottom lip and picked at the scab on his arm. “Only way in is the front gate, ’cause the fence is high and they run an electric current across the top. That’s the bad news. The good news is, the gate’s out of view from the monument and quiet when it opens. Steer clear of the dirt path-you can see it pretty well from up top. Just east of it is the most brush cover, and it’s a steeper approach, so it’ll keep you pretty well hidden.”

“How about the monument? How do you get up on it? Platform elevator or anything?”

“Nope. Climb the scaffolding, that’s all. On the back side, there’s some two-by-fours in place like a ladder. They use pulleys to hoist shit up, drop-tubes to junk stuff from up high.”

“What kind of equipment is available? That can be used as weapons?”

“Mostly locked up at night. Probably a few hammers lying around. Oh-and a sandblaster. That fucker’ll strafe your ass, lift skin. Then there’s the usual suspects-steel plates, boards, nails. I’ll show you as we go.”

“You’re gonna stay down the hill. I’ve gone through too much effort for you to get killed now.”

“Why would you care?” His tone, sharp and little-boy bitter, cut through the collaborative mood they’d briefly established. He shifted in his seat, his face taking on a reddish hue Tim usually associated with crying. “Answer me. You’ve dragged me into enough because of all this. I’ve gone along with all your crazy shit. I want to know.”

Tim fought away the first responses that came, knowing Bowrick deserved something more. “Look.” He moistened his lips. “When I got to your house to kill you, when I saw you, I felt like I was looking into a mirror.”