Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“Just doing my job, Marshal.”

“Do it elsewhere.”

The cop retreated inside the hotel room.

“How are you doing?” Tannino asked. He was looking Hill Street hip in his Harvey Woods sport coat, polyester slacks, and Nunn Bush wingtips.

“Okay.” Tim unholstered his Smith amp; Wesson, double-checked that the wheel was empty save the six casings, and handed it over to Tannino, not wanting to make him ask for it. The weapon was no longer his; it was federal evidence.

“We’ll get you a fresh one soon.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Let’s get you out of this mess. The media monkeys are banging the bars, and the scene’s gonna heat up.”

“Thanks, Marshal. I fired si-”

The marshal held up his hand. “Not now, not here. Nothing oral, ever. You know the game. You’ll make one statement one time, and it’ll be in writing. You did your job and did it well-now let’s jump the hoops and make sure you’re protected.” He offered his hand and pulled Tim up off the wall. “Let’s go.”

•The room was small and painfully bright. Tim shifted on the examination table, and the stiff paper beneath him crinkled. Bear and the other ART members had also been cleared to County USC Hospital and set up in separate rooms to simmer down.

A polite knock on the door, then Marshal Tannino stepped in. “Rackley. You left quite a trail back there.” He cocked his head, regarding Tim with his dark brown eyes. “The doctor told me you refused sedatives. Why’s that?”

“I don’t need to be sedated.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Not about this.”

“You’ve been through this before. With the Rangers, too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I have. I’d like to say just a few times.”

“There’s an Employee Assistance Intervention Team coming out. They’re available to talk to you, the other guys, your wife, whatever you want.”

“The Hug Squad, huh? I might take a pass.”

“You can do that. But you might want to consider it.”

“To be honest, Marshal, this doesn’t bother me very much. I had little choice. I abided by regulations. They tried to kill me. I shot them justly.” Tim moistened his lips. “There are other things I need to tend to. Things closer to home.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, too. Your daughter. There’s that guy who specializes in this kind of stuff-that high-profile shrink over at UCLA…”

“William Rayner.”

“He’s expensive, but I’m sure I could get admin to spring for-”

“We’re gonna feel our way through this one on our own, thanks.”

“Okay.” Tannino clicked his teeth a few times, watching Tim with concern. “How are you two doing with that stuff?”

Tim pursed his lips, then unpursed them. “I don’t know.”

Tannino cleared his throat, studied the floor. “Yeah. I’d imagine that’s just about right.”

“Is there any way…?”

“What, son?”

“Is there any way we could have one of our guys look into my daughter’s case? The sheriff’s detectives on it aren’t…” He stopped again, unable to meet Tannino’s eyes.

“We can’t put this office’s resources on the line for a personal case, Rackley. That’s not how we play. You know better than to ask that.”

Tim’s face reddened. “Yes. I do. I’m sorry.” He slid off the table. “I’m okay to go?”

“I’d like to buy you a little more time from the media. Three dead, a public shooting-it’s gonna be a circus. We’ll have to do things very methodically.” He looked at Tim as if unsure he was registering this. “Plus, your FLEOA lawyer is on his way over. He’ll help you with your statement, make sure you’re all lined out.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry about this crap. This is just the way things go down these days. But we’ll cover all our bases. You can’t turn a bad shooting into a good shooting, but you can turn a good shooting into a bad one.”

“It was a good shooting.”

“Then let’s make sure it stays that way.”

•Dray was curled up on the couch in the gloom of the living room when Tim returned. The blinds were drawn, as they’d been when Tim had left that morning, and he wondered if she’d bothered to open them all day. She was wearing ripped jeans and a sweatshirt from the academy and looked as though she hadn’t gotten around to a shower. At arm’s length from her repose sat a half-eaten bowl of cereal, beside two empty Coke cans that had been knocked over.

It was too dark for Tim to see whether she was asleep, though he sensed she wasn’t. He checked the clock on the VCR: almost eleven. “Sorry I’m so late. I got-”

“I know. I watched the news. I thought you might’ve been able to find a phone.”

“Not the way things went.”

With effort Dray propped herself up on her elbows, her face rising into visibility. “How’d it go down?”

He told her. A thoughtful frown appeared on her face halfway through.

“Come here,” she said when he was done. He crossed to her, and she made room on the couch between her legs. He sat, leaning against her, her body sleep-warm and firm. She’d been working her triceps last month, and they stood out like prongs on the backs of her arms. She played with his hair. She pressed his head to her chest, and he let her. As he relinquished control, it became clear how much he’d retreated into protective rigidity to drag himself through the past few days. He lay back, breathing Dray in, relishing her touch.

After a few minutes he turned and kissed her. They broke apart, hesitated, then kissed again.

Dray brushed his bangs back from his forehead, running a finger over the thin scar at his scalp line where he’d been struck by a rifle butt outside of Kandahar. He kept his hair combed down on the right side to hide it; Dray alone could study it without making him uncomfortable. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, go back to the bedroom,” she said.

“Are you hitting on me?”

“I think so.”

Tim stood and leaned over her, sliding his hands under her knees and shoulders. She let out an anomalous giggle and looped her arms around his neck. He exaggerated his trouble picking her up, groaned, and dropped her back on the couch. “You’re gonna have to lay off the weights.”

He’d intended it as a joke, but it came out sharply. Her smile dimmed, and he felt his insult bank and come back a vicious self-loathing. He crouched and cupped her face with both his hands, letting her read the remorse in his eyes.

“Come with me,” he said.

She stood, and they regarded each other. They hadn’t made love since Ginny was killed. Though it had been only six days, the fact hung disproportionately heavy between them. Maybe they were punishing themselves, denying themselves intimacy, or maybe they feared the closeness itself.

Tim felt first-date nervous, and he thought how odd to be so fragile at his age, in his house, with his wife. She was breathing hard, her neck sparkling with remembered sweat, and she reached out and took his hand, a touch awkwardly.

They walked back to the bedroom, pulled off their shirts, and began to kiss, tentatively, tenderly. She lay back on the bed, and he moved gently above her, but then her noises shifted direction and gained edge. He stopped, realizing she was weeping. Her fingers splayed, her palms finding the balls of his shoulders, and she pushed him back and off. He sat on the bed, naked and confused as she grappled with the sheets to pull them over herself. Ginny’s empty room across the hall silently made itself known, like a deep vibration.

Dray tucked one arm across her stomach and pressed her other hand to her trembling lips until they stopped. “I’m sorry. I thought I might be ready.”