Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

“It’s been a long, frustrating haul closing in on a viable and receptive candidate,” Rayner said wearily.

Tim took a moment with this, and they let him. Rayner’s eyebrows were raised, anticipating Tim’s next question. “How do you protect against someone breaking all these elaborate rules you’ve set up? There’s no controlling authority.”

Rayner held up a hand in a calming gesture, though no one was particularly agitated. “That is one of our primary concerns. Which is why we have a no-tolerance policy.”

“Our contract is exclusively oral, of course,” Ananberg said, “as we don’t want to set anything incriminating down in writing. And this contract includes a kill clause.”

“A kill clause?”

“Legally speaking, a kill clause sets forth prenegotiated conditions detailing what will occur should a contract be terminated. Ours goes into effect the instant any member of the Commission breaks any of our protocols.”

“And what are those prenegotiated conditions?”

“The kill clause dictates that the Commission be immediately dissolved. All remaining documentation-which we go to every effort to keep to a minimum-will be destroyed. With the exception of tying up loose ends, there will be no future Commission activity of any kind.” Rayner’s face hardened. “Zero tolerance.”

“We’re well aware that the Commission places us on a slippery slope,” Ananberg said. “So we’re anxious to ensure that there will be no sliding.”

“And if someone withdraws?”

“Go with God,” Rayner said. “We presume that what passes here remains here, as it is equally incriminating to whoever elects to leave.” He grinned a smirky grin. “Mutual assured destruction makes for a nifty little insurance policy.”

Tim did not return the grin but studied the practiced lines around Rayner’s mouth. William Rayner, vehement proponent of the insurance policy.

Ananberg said, “The Commission would go on brief hiatus until we found an appropriate replacement.”

Tim leaned back in the armchair so he could feel his Sig pressing into the small of his back. He gauged his angle to the door-not good. “And if I decide against joining?”

“We would hope that, as someone who’s lost a daughter, you would appreciate our perspective and leave us to our work,” Rayner said. “If you were to contact the authorities, be advised there is no incriminating evidence on site. We will deny ever having had this conversation. And to say our collective words are greatly respected in the legal community is something of an understatement.”

All eyes were suddenly on Tim. The ticking of the grandfather clock punctuated the silence. Ananberg went to the desk, turned a key, then removed a dark cherry box from one of the drawers. Tilting it, she opened the hinged lid, revealing a gleaming Smith amp; Wesson. 357-service make-nestled in the felt interior. She closed the box and set it on the desktop.

Rayner lowered his voice so it seemed he was addressing only Tim. “When people endure such a…bureaucratic betrayal as the one the courts handed you, as the one the U.S. Marshals Service handed you, they contend with it in different ways, most of them bad. Some get angry, some get depressed, some find God.” One of his eyebrows drew up, almost disappearing beneath the line of his hair. “What will you do, Mr. Rackley?”

Tim decided he’d had his fill of questions, so he kept his eyes on Dumone. “How do they feel about taking a backseat? Operationally?”

Dumone’s and Robert’s fidgeting broadcast that this was well-covered ground.

The Stork shrugged and adjusted his glasses. “I got no problem,” he said, though no one had asked him.

“They’ll deal with it,” Dumone said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“They understand the necessity of bringing in a high-demand operator, and they’re reconciling themselves to the change.” Dumone’s voice gathered edge, and Tim could hear the tough Boston cop in it.

Tim looked at Mitchell, then Robert. “Is that true?”

Mitchell looked away, studying the wall. Robert had a slight upper lip, so when he smiled, his mouth was a sheen of teeth and hair. His voice came slick and sharp, like a scalpel. “You’re the boss.”

Tim turned back to Dumone. “Call me when they’re reconciled.”

Dumone’s shoes shushed across the rug as he approached. He stood over Tim, gazing down at him. His face, a blend of wear and texture, held in it a dark-tinted element of calm that Tim thought might be wisdom. “We’d like an answer now.”

“We need an answer now,” Robert said. “Either this proposal strikes a chord with you or it doesn’t. There’s no thinking about it.”

“This isn’t a gym membership,” Tim said.

“Our offer terminates the minute you walk out that door,” Rayner said.

“I don’t negotiate like this.”

Now Mitchell-“Those are our terms.”

“All right, then.” Tim stood and walked out.

Rayner caught him outside near the gate. “Mr. Rackley. Mr. Rackley!”

Tim turned, keys in his hand.

Rayner’s face was red with the cold, and his breath was visible. His shirt had come untucked. He looked less smug out here, away from his first-among-equals reign in the library. “I apologize for that. I can be a little…firm sometimes. We’re just eager to begin our work.” He moved to rest his hand on the trunk of Tim’s car but stopped, his fingertips hovering an inch off the metal. He seemed to have a tough time manufacturing his next words. “You are our top choice. Our sole choice. We took a great deal of care in selecting you. If you don’t sign on, we have to start the search over-a long process. Take more time if you need it.”

“I intend to.”

Tim pulled out into the street. When he glanced into his rearview mirror, Rayner was still standing in front of the house, watching him drive off.

AS TIM TURNED into his cul-de-sac, he spotted Dumone leaning against a parked Lincoln Town Car at the far curb, arms crossed, like a waiting chauffeur. Tim pulled up beside him and rolled down his window.

Dumone winked. “Touche.”

Tim glanced around to see if any of the neighbors had taken note of them. “Touche yourself.”

Dumone gestured to the backseat with a tilt of his head. “Why don’t you come for a ride?”

“Why don’t you get off my street?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For being rude?”

Dumone’s laugh was worn, and it crackled around the edges like an old LP. “Christ no. For underestimating you. That hard-sell, tough-cop bit. At my age I should know better.”

Tim’s lips pressed together in a half grin.

Dumone jerked his head again. “Come on. Hop in.”

“If it’s just the same, why don’t you take a ride with me?”

“Fair enough.” When Dumone pulled his frame into Tim’s passenger seat, he let out a textured groan like a bellows collapsing. He removed a Remington from his hip and a small. 22 from an ankle holster and set them in the center console. “Just so you can listen without being distracted.”

Tim drove a few blocks, pulled into the deserted back parking lot of Ginny’s old elementary school, and killed the lights. Dumone’s chest jerked with a held-in cough. Tim gazed out the windshield so he could pretend for Dumone’s sake he didn’t notice.

“This that school where those three teenagers went on that shooting spree?”

“No,” Tim said. “That was at the other Warren, a high school south of downtown.”

“Kids shooting kids.” Dumone shook his head, grunted, then shook his head again.

For a while they watched the unlit school in silence.

“When you get on in life,” Dumone said, “you start viewing the world a bit differently. Your idealism doesn’t die, but it’s mitigated. You start thinking, hell, maybe life’s just what we make it, and maybe our job is to leave this place a little better than it was when we came in. I don’t know. Could be all old-man disconnect. Maybe that poet was right, that youth holds knowledge and everything we learn as we get older takes us away from it.”