Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Bowrick’s move had occurred less than two months ago, and Tim prayed he and Erika had, in fact, been a couple and that they were still in touch. He’d seen men forsake their cars with their telltale Vehicle Identification Numbers, their pets with registered pedigrees, even their own children to go into hiding, but they could always be counted on to contact their girlfriends. Drawn back to the bang, like a dog to his vomit. With a loner like Bowrick, the chances were even better.

The first two bills gave Tim nothing, and he felt a dread settle over him in anticipation of having to call every number in the entire stack, but then he noticed a recurring regional number matched with a recurring time. Roughly 11:30 P.M. every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He looked closer and saw that there were also calls made to the same number, less regularly, around 7:30 A.M.

Clever, clever Bowrick.

Bowrick knew that if someone was determined to find him-a reasonable possibility, given that he was partially responsible for one of the most publicized mass killings in Los Angeles history-that his pursuer could trace calls originating from people closest to him. So instead of having calls ring through to his apartment, he’d set contact times where he could be reached out-of-pocket.

Tim called the number and let it ring and ring, since he guessed it was a pay phone. After the seventeenth ring, a man picked up. He spoke with a strong Indian accent. “Stop calling, please. This is a pay phone. You’re driving my customers away.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but my girlfriend was supposed to pick up. I’m sort of worried she’s not there, so I want to cruise over and look for her. Would you mind telling me where you’re located?”

“You will buy something and not just poke around?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Corner of Lincoln and Palms.”

Tim knew already, but had to ask to clear the Politically Correct censor he was surprised to find lurking in his head. “And your store isa…?”

“7-Eleven.”

He hung up, checked his watch: 8:11 P.M. He was surprised to find he’d been going for nearly thirteen hours. The time had passed in a blur, unbraked by thoughts of wife and daughter, ethics and accountability. Just satisfying work, a blend of instinct and focus.

He had a little over three hours until Bowrick’s possible scheduled Monday-night phone call but decided to drive over to stake out the territory. The 7-Eleven sat on a busy cross street, so it was easy for Tim to remain inconspicuous. He parked on the far side of Lincoln at a meter, where he had a clear angle to the store entrance. The meters weren’t in operation after six o’clock, so he didn’t have to worry about traffic officers.

He entered the 7-Eleven and bought a Big Gulp of Mountain Dew and a tin of Skoal. Caffeine and nicotine-two bad habits forged on stakeouts. Debuffier peered out from a grainy photo on a tabloid front page by the register, beside another shot of his oversize body bag. The headline shrieked ANGEL OF GOD TAKING OUT THE TRASH. The pay phone was in the back, between a single bank of outdated video games. A pock-faced kid was getting jiggy on the Centipede ball.

Tim settled back into his car and waited, keeping an eye on the twin glass doors that strobed in and out of view between passing trucks and cars. So his concentration wouldn’t be compromised, he kept the Nextel off; the Nokia he’d left at home. He worked his way through half his dip, spitting into an empty Coke can. A hypnotic state of dulled focus, similar to that elicited by distance running and vacation photos, overtook him. His ass grew numb. His reflection in the rearview showed that the black eye Dray had given him two weeks ago was in no rush to vacate his face, though it had considerately faded to a wide bluish smudge.

Eleven-thirty came and went with no sign of Bowrick. Tim waited until 1:15 A.M., just to be stubborn. He finally pulled out from his spot, his lower back throbbing, his gums sore from Skoal, vowing to wear a weight belt and chew sunflower seeds the next day.

At home he set his alarm clock for 5:30 so he could get back across town in case Bowrick had slid his call time to Tuesday morning. He slept, woke, and returned to his post, stopping only to buy a Polaroid camera and a weight belt, which he notched around his waist for added back support. The meters went live at 7:00 A.M., and within fifteen minutes he had to loop around the block to avoid being cited by a traffic officer.

He sat spitting sunflower-seed shells into yesterday’s Big Gulp cup until 10:15 A.M. He had Bowrick’s occasional 7:30 A.M. call figured as a prework check-in with the girlfriend, so it was likely Bowrick would be tied up on a job for the next few hours. Tim left, ate a quick sandwich, and sat stakeout from 11:30 to 2:30, in case Bowrick decided to make a lunchtime stop. Tim returned again at 4:30 and sat a long post-workday shift, through the 11:30 P.M. target time until 1:00 in the morning.

Exhausted and dejected, he headed for home. Gripped by insomnia, he sat up, studying the marked phone statements. Erika Heinrich’s most recent bill listed calls only through the first of the month-what if it was outdated? The call pattern could have shifted in the past three weeks. Tomorrow was Wednesday-one of Bowrick’s regular call days, so Tim vowed to give it another twenty-four hours.

When Tim finally turned on his Nokia, he had only two messages from the past two days. The first was a couple minutes of monotone rambling from Dray, expressing her disappointment that the public defender’s notes hadn’t turned up any new leads. All day, he was alarmed to realize, he’d tucked his thoughts of Ginny beneath some defense mechanism in his mind, hidden from sight. The emotional sting returned even harsher, like a fresh wound slapped, shattering the respite he’d found in its hiatus.

In the next message, Dray let him know that Marshal Tannino had called again-apparently for the second time this week-concerned about Tim and wanting to check in on him. Ananberg had called the Nextel last night around 3:00 A.M. Her message simply said, “Tim. Jenna.”

He was pleased that the rest of the Commission hadn’t bothered him, as he’d requested. Having Robert and Mitchell out of the way for the time being was a relief. He replayed Dray’s first message twice, looking for places where her voice cracked around the edges, indicating want or longing.

He sat at his small desk, studying his wallet-worn photo of Ginny, feeling his thoughts percolate, blur, disregard their boundaries. Later he tried to sleep but failed. He was on his belly, watching the alarm clock when it clicked to 5:30 and emitted its galling buzz.

He sat the stakeout straight through the day, leaving only to piss twice and grab a burrito from a stand up the street. His head, displeased at its lack of stimuli, swam in hangover haze. The air felt more exhaust than oxygen, and the sea breathed no hint that it was hitting sand ten blocks away.

At the stoplight ahead, a vendor of dubious naturalization was selling tiny U.S. flags for ten bucks a pop. America-land of ironic opportunity.

Afternoon eased into dusk, dusk to night. When 11:15 rolled around, Tim loosened his weight belt one notch, letting the cramping tighten his lower back and push him to alertness. Twenty minutes later he was still sitting upright, eyes trained on the store entrance. At 11:45 he started cursing. Midnight came, and he turned over the engine and threw the car into gear.

He was just pulling out when Bowrick rounded the corner.

BOWRICK SPENT A good forty minutes on the 7-Eleven phone before emerging, spitting once on the sidewalk and walking back up Palms. Tim had pulled the car over on Palms in anticipation of Bowrick’s heading back in the direction from which he’d arrived. He’d assumed Bowrick would show up on foot due to his history without a car; his new residence couldn’t be far away.