Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

The larger form shifted and raised an arm to the light. Rayner’s squinting face appeared when the expensive sheets slid down to his pajamaed chest. Confusion predictably turned to panic, then he was fumbling in his nightstand drawer and pointing a shaking revolver in Tim’s direction.

Tim clicked off the flashlight. A silence. Rayner reached over and turned on the lamp, illuminating the nightstand telephone with a sleek accompanying recording device Tim had seen previously only in the homes of Secret Service acquaintances. Rayner’s face, sweaty and tense, relaxed. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me. I thought you’d call.”

Tim’s eyes went to the recording device by the phone, positioned to capture his acceptance call. If Tim ever got inconvenient, Rayner could edit the recording however he pleased and drop it in the wrong hands. Not-so-mutual assured destruction.

At Rayner’s voice the bulge in the bed beside him wriggled up out of the sheets. Her face was sleepy and full, her dark hair lank and down across her eyes. Though Rayner’s face was colored to the ears, she didn’t look the least bit scared or embarrassed. A bit pleased, maybe, which didn’t surprise Tim from what he knew of her. Rayner was still frozen with shock, gun clutched in both hands like an unruly garden hose.

“These are my conditions,” Tim said. “Number one: I get uncomfortable-the least bit uncomfortable-and the deal is off. I walk. Number two: I have full operational control. If anyone on my team starts stretching their britches, I reserve the right to slap them back into place. Number three: Stop pointing that gun at my head.” He waited for Rayner to comply, then continued. “Number four: My privacy is to be respected. As you can see, it doesn’t feel so nice when the shoe’s on the other foot. Number five: I’ve already taken the. 357 you tempted me with the other night, and I’m keeping it. Number six: First meeting of the Commission will be in the conference room downstairs, tomorrow night at twenty hundred hours. Inform the others.”

He slid off the chair.

“I could’ve…could’ve shot you,” Rayner said.

Tim walked over to the foot of the bed and opened his fist. Six bullets plinked down on the comforter at Rayner’s feet.

Heading back down the stairs in the darkness, he couldn’t help but crack a smile.

PULLING INTO THE driveway of his-Dray’s-house felt like a return to comfort. Tim threw the car into park and sat for a moment, admiring the perfect alignment of shingles he’d hammered row by row onto the roof, the uncracked concrete blocks of the walkway that he’d reset and resmoothed after last year’s tremors. Tad Hartley, mowing his lawn next door in jeans and his trademark FBI windbreaker, raised a hand in silent greeting, and Tim felt like a liar when he waved back.

He got out of the car, walked up the front path, and rang his own doorbell-a weird sensation.

Dray’s voice came with her footsteps before she opened the door. “Shoot, Bear, you’re early. I wanted to-”

She pulled the door open and did a poor job blinking back an upset expression. “What are you doing, Timothy? You’ve been entering this house through the garage every day for the last eight years.”

He had a difficult time deciding where to look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to…I didn’t know what to do.”

She stepped back. She was wearing her uniform-probably working a P.M., which meant she’d report to briefing at three. “Very well, Mr. Rackley. Won’t you please come in?” She moved quickly back to the kitchen, leaving him to trail. Once she was out of sight, he tidied up the newspaper sections strewn across the couch.

“Can I get you a drink, Mr. Rackley?”

“Dray. Point taken. And yes, water.”

She entered, bearing the glass on a plate she held up like a cocktail tray, a dishtowel over her arm like a waiter’s service napkin. They both started laughing.

Their smiles faded. Tim rubbed his hands together, though he wasn’t cold.

Dray handed him the water and sat opposite him on the love seat. “I got Kindell’s court transcripts yesterday. They’re fat as hell-I was up half the night reviewing them.”

“And?”

“Nothing of interest on the weenie wagger. But both of his lewd acts were with an accomplice-rare for child molesters, from what I know-so that puts a bit of fuel behind your theory.”

“The previous accomplices?”

“Both in the clink. They didn’t get to cop out with the cuckoo plea. They were the brains both times out-there to arrange and watch the show. Both white-collar-one guy was an accountant. Kindell’s the freak, not a capable planner.”

“So we have an accomplice who wanted in on the fun, but Kindell took it too far.” Hearing his own words brought on a wave of nausea, which he fought away.

“Right. Which might explain why the guy sounded so upset when he made the anonymous call. He was in for a show, not a murder.”

“An ethicist.”

“And calling the private line to the station, covering his ass on the call-that matches a planner profile. More organized.”

They sat with their respective thoughts for a few moments. Tim still hadn’t adjusted to the seesawing emotion that each new development in Ginny’s case brought. It occurred to him he might not ever.

When he looked up, Dray’s face had shifted to sadness. “I know we agreed to take some time apart, but I didn’t sign on for this,” she said. “The vanishing act. The secret phone number. The move downtown. We went through this kind of stuff enough when you were a Ranger.”

“This isn’t us having to be apart because I’m deployed somewhere. This is us saving this marriage by taking a break from it.”

He could tell from the set of her mouth that she knew he was right. She’d put on the faintest touches of makeup, something she normally reserved for weekend evenings, and Tim found it delightful and desperate all at once. Especially since he knew she’d wipe it off before heading to the station.

“Being alone in this house.” She shook off a chill. “And the quiet. And the nighttime.” She had a tendency to tick off on her fingers points she wasn’t listing by number, an endearing break from the usual precision of her demeanor.

“It’ll get easier,” he said gently. “You’ll get used to it.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t want to what?”

“Get used to living without you. And…” She wedged her legs beneath her. “Maybe I don’t want to get used to Ginny being gone. A part of me wants to carry that…that pain all the time, because it keeps her with me at least. And if it fades, then what do I have? Last night I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t remember what color her school shoes were. Those stupid Keds she wanted so bad. So I was up at four in the morning, digging through her closet, her things.” She pursed her lips. “Red. They were red. Someday I won’t remember that anymore. Then I won’t remember what her favorite cartoon is, or what size pants she wore, and then I won’t be able to remember what her eyes looked like when she smiled, and then I won’t have anything left of her.”

“There’s got to be a middle ground. Between comfort and disregard.”

“But where is it?”

“I think we each have to find that for ourselves.”

Across the five-foot stretch of carpet, they studied each other.

The doorbell rang. After the second ring, Dray broke off her gaze and answered the door. Bear gathered her up in an immense hug. She tapped his ribs. “How’s the side?”

“It’s nothing. But you two…” Bear thunked into Tim with a hug. Tim braced himself for the double back pat, which came like a tank cannon firing. Bear shoved him away. “Where the hell have you been? I left you two messages yesterday.”