Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

He turned to Bowrick, who was watching him with growing unease, facing sideways in the passenger seat so his back was pressed up against the door.

“Give me your arm.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Give me your arm.”

“No way, man. You’re fucking high.”

“Believe it or not, kid, you’re not my only concern right now. So give me your arm or get out of the car, because I have more important things to take care of.”

Bowrick studied him for a while, sweat glistening in the strands of hair on his upper lip. “This gonna kill me?”

“Yes. I’ve orchestrated the entire chain of events over the past three days because this is the easiest way I could think to kill you.”

Bowrick held out an arm, clenched his fist. Tim slid the needle into the pale blue throb at the base of his biceps, careful to penetrate only the epidermis. Ignoring the stink of Bowrick’s fear sweat, he eased the plunger down, and the skin at the needle’s tip immediately wilted and colored.

“Ouch,” Bowrick said.

When Tim removed the needle, tiny black-tinged bubbles welled up from the flesh puncture. He said, “It’ll scab up in a few hours, scab up good.”

He started the engine and drove away.

“What the fuck was that?”

Tim shoved one of the poppy-seed cakes at him, with a can of Mountain Dew. “Eat this.”

“What the fuck…?”

“Shut up. Eat it. Hurry.”

Bowrick started shoving the cake into his mouth, swallowing large mouthfuls with gulps of Mountain Dew.

“Now this piece. Go. Eat it.”

Crumbs clung to Bowrick’s face.

“Drink this. Get it down.” Tim pressed another can of soda into Bowrick’s side until he took it. Bowrick popped the top and forced down a few gulps. Tim opened the Sudafed box in his lap and fumbled out four thirty-milligram tablets. “And these. Take them.” He thrust the cough-syrup container at Bowrick. “Wash it down with this.”

Bowrick complied, grimacing. “Why are you doing all this shit to me?”

When he realized he wasn’t going to get an answer, he threw his hands up and smacked them against his thighs. His knee was starting to shake up and down, a nervous tic brought on by the caffeine and the pseudoephedrine. After a while he started poking at the bruise, watching it spread and darken. Tim drove fast, enjoying the silence.

They headed back toward downtown. To their left, way up in the hills, Tim saw the darkened silhouette of the memorial tree, barely visible through the scaffolding.

He pulled into the parking lot of a large, two-story complex. Harsh hospital lighting bled through the closed blinds. His knee hammering up and down now, Bowrick strained to make out the cracked wooden sign out front. L.A. COUNTY RECOVERY CENTER.

“What the hell?” Bowrick said as they got out. “What the fuck is going on?”

Tim grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the building. Bowrick stumbled along, breathing hard. Tim shoved through the front door, dragging Bowrick behind him. The admitting nurse sprang to her feet, her black chair rolling back across white tile and hitting a garbage can five feet back. The lobby was otherwise empty.

“I caught my goddamn brother here with this.” Tim yanked Bowrick’s arm toward the nurse, revealing the nasty bruise on the soft underside. “He’s supposed to be clean-been off for more than six months.” He glared at Bowrick threateningly. Through the sweaty tangle of his bangs, Bowrick looked genuinely repentant. “He was supposed to have been off for more than six months.”

“Sir, please calm down.”

Tim took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. Releasing Bowrick’s arm, he leaned over the counter and spoke softly, conspiratorially. “I’m sorry. It’s been a very hard year. Look, this has already caused my family and Paul here a great deal of embarrassment. Is this clinic, you know, discreet?”

“We have complete patient confidentiality. One hundred percent.”

“I don’t want my family name on any paperwork.”

“It doesn’t have to be. But first things first-”

“Do you have inpatient care? He’s been talking crazy, talking suicide, me and our mom can’t keep an eye on him twenty-four/seven.”

“It depends whether his medical evaluation indicates that he needs to be admitted.” She looked at Bowrick, pale, sweaty, panting. “Which I would say seems likely. We have a forty-eight-hour confidential hold”-checking her watch-“which takes us to Monday at midnight. Then he’d have to be reassessed, and we’ll discuss more permanent arrangements.” She stepped out from behind the desk and took Bowrick gently by the arm. He followed her in a sort of daze.

“Let me show you to an exam room. I’ll page our public-health nurse. She’ll be with you shortly, and then we can determine if he’s eligible for residential housing.”

“He’s eighteen. Can I leave him here?”

“It would be better if you could stay with him.”

“I think I’ve had enough of him right now.”

“That’s your choice, sir. If you wouldn’t mind waiting at least until the public-health nurse arrives-it should be less than ten minutes. I have to watch the front desk.”

“Fine,” Tim said. “That’s fine.”

She closed the door behind her, and then Tim crossed to Bowrick, pressing two fingers to his neck to find his carotid pulse. Way elevated heart rate.

“You have nausea and the sweats,” Tim said. “You scratch yourarms a lot. You’re having insomnia. Nervousness, anxiety, and irritability you seem to have covered pretty well already. You’ve been having a lot of suicidal thoughts lately. Rub your eyes so they’re red. Good-keep rubbing. The poppy seeds and the dextromethorphan from the Vicks should ding your opiate drug tests for at least the two days. See if you can make yourself puke later tonight, to make sure they keep you on. When you’re assigned a room, write the number on a slip of paper and tape it behind the hinged lid of the garbage can outside the lobby. Call your probation officer the second you leave. If you don’t, I’ll come looking for you. And believe me, I’ll find you.”

Bowrick looked up, one hand laid across his racing heart. He was still breathing hard; saliva had gummed at the corners of his mouth. Some icing was smeared on his lower lip. “Why didn’t you tell me the plan?”

“I wanted you to look alarmed, resistant, and pissed off.”

“You’re smart. You’re fuckin’ smart.”

“The sad truth is, most of what I know that’s clever, I’ve learned from the mutts.”

“The mutts, huh?”

“That’s what we call them.”

“Them.” Bowrick flashed a faint grin.

Tim withdrew from the room. He was just closing the door when Bowrick called out. Tim stuck his head back in. “How long should I stay here?”

Tim thought about this long and hard. “Give me forty-eight hours.”

TIM’S ATTEMPT AT sleep was just that. He drifted off with a mind full of dead Ginny and woke from a vision of himself standing knee-deep in bodies with his hands stained red past the wrists, which he thought pretty uninventive.

Four A.M. found him sitting on his chair with his feet on the windowsill, watching steam drift up from a busted pipe in the alley below. The Nextel rang.

He walked over slowly, picking it up on the third ring.

Robert this time-the voice rough like unpolished metal. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“Depends on the day.”

“If you are, you’ll heed a word of advice: Get the fuck out of Dodge. You’re on our list.”

“And you’re on mine.” In the background Tim could make out wisps of a television news report. He turned on the TV, hit mute, and clicked through the channels until the newscaster’s lips matched the faint words he was picking up through the phone: KCOM.