Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Tim stared at the pristine strip of wood at the chimney’s edge; he’d painted it with a three-fourths angular liner brush so he wouldn’t stain the bricks.

Mac pounded the nail through the backboard, and the wood panel beneath split. Tim felt his teeth grind so hard his skull vibrated. Dray was sitting backward on the picnic table, feet on the bench, her head lowered into her hands, her face hidden by the drape of her bangs. Beside her, Bear watched the proceedings with the horrified absorption of a rubbernecker at a particularly grisly car wreck.

Another volley of bangs, and then Mac called out, “Is it straight?”

Fowler and Gutierez paused from dribbling on the patio to flash him thumbs-ups. “Good enough.”

The backboard was at a four o’clock tilt.

Tim walked over and stood before Bear and Dray, one foot up on the cooler.

Dray gestured limply to Mac but couldn’t muster words.

“I’m on my way,” Tim said.

“I’m following,” Bear said.

“You can’t leave me stuck here.”

“He’s your guest, Dray,” Tim said.

The other deputies were at the rear fence line, smoking and speaking in lowered voices.

Dray’s face was drawn and weary, and the dark pockets beneath her eyes looked like bruises. Tim remembered when they first met, at a fire-department fund-raiser. She’d been wearing a yellow dress dotted with tiny blue flowers. The straps crossed in the back, showing off a diamond patch of skin just below her nape. She’d walked past him, pursued by a fire chief-older guy, as all her exes were-and she’d sent a breeze of jasmine and lotion his way that had on him the kind of effect usually reserved for shitty romantic comedies and Pepe Le Pew. Later that evening he’d caught her out in the parking lot getting a sweater from her car, and they’d spoken for about forty-five minutes in the intimate space between vehicles. He’d kissed her, and she’d gone home with him, and for months afterward firefighters from Station 41 had fixed Tim with cold, aggressive glares every time their paths crossed, a reprisal he gladly endured.

Only in hindsight had he realized how noteworthy Dray’s feminine getup had been that night; she’d not worn the dress since, nor anything yellow, nor especially anything with little blue flowers. Now she looked tired and world-weary and unspecifically pissed off, like a stoic dust-bowl mother with a child hanging from her neck and three more behind her, around her, waiting to be fed.

“I lied to you, Dray,” Tim said. “I’m not wearing my wedding band because I can’t get it off over my knuckle. I’m still wearing it because I can’t not.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her chest rose beneath her tank top and stopped with a held breath. Her eyes were brilliant green in the sunlight and as large as he’d ever seen them.

Mac’s voice rose, disrupting them. “…so we called the Milpitas guys the Mil-penis guys,” he was saying, recounting his week at EOB SWAT training, his fifth time through the program and in all likelihood the fifth time he’d fail. “Good little rivalry. I shot a two sixty-two on the test.”

“In your fucking dreams you shot a two sixty-two,” someone said.

Mac’s finger made the sign of the cross on his barrel chest. “It was pretty funny. They had this bull dyke on their squad-”

Dray was on her feet. “Why’d you use that word?”

Mac stopped, glanced at Gutierez and Fowler for support. “I don’t know. Because she was, I guess.”

“Why? Short haircut, good build? Working hard on the job?” Her arms were crossed, and Tim knew from her expression that she was all about the fight right now and not the content, and so they’d be at it for hours. “I field that shit all day, and you can bet your ass she does, too.”

Bear signaled Tim with a jerk of his head, and Tim followed him out through the side gate. Bear pointed to his truck, and they both climbed in and sat for a moment. They could still make out Dray’s voice, the fricatives and raised syllables.

“On the warpath, ain’t she?” Bear said.

“It’s a thickheaded way for her to beat up on herself.”

Bear fingered one of the schisms in the heat-cracked dash, then wiped his moist palms on his slacks. He was giving off discomfort like a scent, fiddling with the hockey puck of a watch strapped to his wrist. Tim waited, knowing Bear didn’t like to be pushed when it came to words.

“Look, Tim. This is a tough thing to ask you. It’s about the killings. This vigilante stuff.”

Tim felt an icy band of sweat spring up on his forehead, just at the hairline.

“I know you quit and all, but…we’d like your help apprehending the guy.”

Tim made sure he breathed a few times before he answered. “Why’s the service involved?”

“There’s some talk the guy could be a fugitive-his fuck-all attitude, probably. Like he’s got nothing to lose. Mayor Hahn’s going ballistic on this one. He tapped Robbery-Homicide, Chief Bratton is leaning on us to pull together a fugitive list from their profile, we already have FBI up our asses-Tannino says fuck ’em all, if we’re doing the work anyway, we might as well try to get the collar ourselves, carve us a bigger piece of the pie at budget time.”

“Makes sense.”

Bear’s hand rustled in his jacket. “Just give this a listen for me, would you?”

“I’m not really-”

The microcassette recorder peeked out from Bear’s fist like a trapped canary. He flipped it and punched the side button with a thumb. Tim heard his own barely disguised voice issue forth. “I have a medical emergency at 14132 Lanyard Street. In the basement. Repeat: in the basement. Please send an ambulance immediately.”

Bear clicked it off. He stared at Tim expectantly. Tim got busy studying the front lawn through the window.

“Personally, I don’t buy the fugitive angle.” Bear’s tone was driving, knowing. “I’m thinking the guy’s former military or PD. He’s got the radio formality, repeating key information.”

Tim recalled being impressed with himself at the time of the call for refraining from spelling out the street name using a phonetic alphabet. Somewhere beneath his guilt and fast-hardening shame shone his admiration for the meticulousness it took to be a competent criminal. A single lapse in a high-heat moment-the location repeat-had narrowed the ground Tim was standing on considerably. A helpful tip from a friend and partner, granted from a position of plausible deniability.

“This jackass”-Bear shook the recorder-“is usurping the law, stealing it from the same people who are gonna track him down. That’s liable to piss people off-understandably so, if you ask me. If I was this guy, I’d be pretty concerned. I’d make sure I knew exactly what I was into.”

Tim waved his hand, palmed some sweat off his forehead, then looked at his watch. “Shit. I’m late for a…meeting.” In his split-second hesitation yawned another void he’d later fill with worries. Bear’s eyes seemed cold-another of Tim’s concerns, trickling in, seeking the emptiness.

“What meeting? You don’t have a job.”

“Exactly. It’s an interview. Private security gig.” Tim pushed open the door and stepped out onto the curb.

“That’s good.” Bear’s face held a not-so-subtle warning. “A lot of people need looking after these days.”

“WE’RE JUST FINISHING up the media recap, Mr. Rackley,” Rayner said when Tim entered the conference room. Rayner stood at the head of the table, a thick manila folder laid open before him on the granite surface, press clippings protruding messily.

“If you ever pull a move like you pulled this morning on TV without our collective and express approval, I’ll-”