The Kill Clause tr-1

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Tannino grimaced at the nickname. “We have no information about that at this time.”

  “We have it from a reliable source that UCLA Professor William Rayner’s death and that of his teaching assistant could be connected to these events. What is the nature of their involvement?”

  “I’m not going to comment on that.”

  “Can you substantiate rumors that Franklin Dumone, the prominent Boston police sergeant who shot himself today at Cedars, was involved?”

  “No. Next question.”

  “Why is the U.S. Marshals Service involved?”

  “This case dovetails with and is an extension of the Lane assassination, the investigation of which fell under federal jurisdiction.”

  “So why isn’t the FBI in charge of the investigation?”

  “We’re working closely with the FBI.” Tannino lied well. In private he referred to the FBI as the Fucking Bunch of Idiots.

  “Any guess as to who the next intended victim will be?”

  Bowrick’s mouth didn’t move at all, but he creaked, “Oh, God.”

  Tannino glanced away, just for a second, but it was a poker tell. “That’s all the information we can disclose at this point.”

  Erika’s hand stopped making its circles on Bowrick’s back.

  Tim leaped up, grabbed the protruding frame above the window, and slid down into the bedroom, landing on his feet. Bowrick and Erika reacted violently, lunging off the bed, dragging the comforter and sheets to the far side in the process. They stood side by side, cowering, their backs to the closet door.

  The house smelled of bratwurst, and Tim thought, How’s that for stereotypes?

  Erika fell to her knees, trembling, embracing Bowrick around his waist. He had one hand up, forearm angled as if shielding light from his eyes.

  “Don’t shoot him, oh, God, don’t…” She broke down.

  “Some men are coming to kill you,” Tim said. “Hide better.”

  A moment of stark disbelief. Bowrick lowered his hand.

  Tim leaned back through the window and swung the sturdy, German jalousies shut, blocking the view from the street. When he turned again to face the kids, tears were sparkling on both their cheeks.

  “Let ’em get me,” Bowrick said. “I don’t care anymore.”

  “Is that true?”

  He sniffled, wiped his nose with his sleeve. “No.”

  Erika found her voice. “Who are you?”

  Tim gestured to the window, now shuttered. “This is stupid. Your coming to this location is stupid. There are trails to lead them here.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Saliva formed a bubble sheet in the corner of Bowrick’s mouth.

  “Not this.”

  “I got nowhere to go.”

  “Go to the cops.”

  “The cops fucking hate me.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “They won’t do shit for me, and if they do, it’ll be worse being in custody than being out here. Trust me-I know.”

  Frustration tightened Tim’s chest. “You figured it out before.”

  “They found me before.”

  “No, I found you before.”

  Bowrick’s hand came up, four fingers angled at Tim, like a wooden puppet pointing. Erika was still on her knees, her cheek mashed against Bowrick’s side, watching.

  “You saved my life.”

  “I didn’t save your life. I decided not to take it.”

  A voice carried down the call. “Erika! Dinner’s on the table.”

  Erika stared at Tim, a lot of white showing in her eyes. Tim looked at her and said softly, “I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “I’m in the bathroom!” she called out. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Well, move it! I didn’t spend all this time cooking to eat a cold meal.”

  Erika’s eyes jerked down at the floor-a hint of embarrassment, even here, in all this.

  Tim tilted his head at Bowrick. “You know how to hide. Just do it better.”

  “I can’t.” Bowrick’s lips started quivering, severely, and the tears came now, full force, fording his lips. “I don’t got nowhere to go.”

  “You don’t have another safe house?”

  “No, man. A buddy of mine helped me set that up. He’s in Donovan right now, went down for grand auto. I got…I got no one.”

  “Save it for the talk shows. For now get lost. And well.”

  Bowrick’s teeth clicked as he studied the floor. His voice came in a small whine. “They’re really gonna do it, aren’t they? Hunt me down and kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  His lower lip sucked in, wavering behind the line of his front teeth. Erika’s arms tightened around his thigh.

  Tim said, “Go to the police.”

  “I’m never going to the police. Never again.”

  “Call your probation officer.”

  “He’ll make me come in.”

  “Go to Mexico.”

  “I can’t…I can’t be apart from Erika like that.”

  “This is not my problem, kid. Do you understand me?”

  “Help him. Would you help him?” Erika sobbed out the words.

  Tim stared at her, stared at him.

  Footsteps coming down the hall, rapidly, sped with anger. “Erika Brunnhilde Heinrich, you get your rear to the dinner table right now.”

  Tim clenched his teeth until he felt his jaw swell at the corners. “Come with me,” he said. He pushed open the shutters and stepped out into the night.

  He was across the front lawn when Bowrick caught up to him, jerking slightly with his limp, breathing hard. “Where we going?”

  “Don’t talk.”

  A pair of headlights illuminated the street, and Tim grabbed Bowrick by the shirt and yanked him against the side of the neighboring house. The car passed. Green Saturn. Family.

  Tim kept close to the house fronts in case the need arose to take cover, Bowrick doing his best to keep up. They reached Tim’s car and climbed in.

  “What kind of car is this?” Tim asked as he pulled out.

  “Acura.”

  “Wrong. The first answer is, ‘What car?’ The second, if you’re pressed hard and need specifics, is, ‘A green ’98 Saturn.’ Like the one that just passed us. Think you can remember that?”

  “I won’t tell nothing about this. I swear to God.”

  “You’re a snitch, Bowrick. Answer my question.”

  He looked out into the night, and Tim saw his sullen expression reflected back off the window. “Yes, I can remember that.”

  They made it a few blocks without anyone talking. Bowrick played with his hair in front, grabbing it in a fist and tugging gently. “They raped her,” he said.

  The wheels hammered over a divot in the road.

  “Four of ’em. On the bus after an away game. The others cheered.”

  Tim watched the road, the unending flashes of road reflectors.

  “She wanted to testify at the trial, but I didn’t want to put her through it. My mousefuck of a public defender wouldn’t have given a shit anyway, and, hey, fuck, I never needed it since I made out pretty good with my immunity grant. It don’t change what I did, but I…I just wanted to say it.”

  Tim turned on the radio. A beat-pumping dance number rattled the speakers. He turned it off. He stared straight ahead at the road. “I didn’t know,” he said.

  Bowrick dug at something between his teeth with a nail. “Of course you didn’t.”

  They’d driven about four blocks in silence when Bowrick laughed. Tim shot him an inquisitive glance, and he smiled-the first time Tim had seen him smile.

  “God, I love that chick.” Bowrick shook his head, still smirking. “Her middle name is Brunnhilde.”

  •Tim pulled into the parking lot of a Ralph’s grocery store, parked, and got out. Bowrick stayed in the car. Tim circled and tapped on the window. “Come.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’
t trust you in the car.”

  Bowrick unbuckled his seat belt and let it snap back on the recoil. Tim led the way into the store, moving aisle to aisle ahead of Bowrick, collecting Visine, Comet, Sudafed, three prepackaged wedges of poppy-seed cake, a six-pack of Mountain Dew, Vicks Formula 44M, and a jar of vitamin-C tablets.

  Bowrick followed him, making noises to demonstrate his bafflement. “Just got a sudden urge to do a little grocery shopping?”

  Back outside, Tim pulled around behind the store, near the dark loading dock. Digging through the trunk, he found the first-aid kit he’d transferred from the Beemer. He freed the empty syringe from beneath its leather strap, grabbed a needle in a sanitized paper sheath, and returned to the driver’s seat.

  He removed the plunger and squeezed a stream of Visine into the empty shot barrel, then sprinkled in some Comet. Placing a vitamin-C pill on the dash, he smashed it with the butt of his gun and swept the resultant powder into the barrel as well. The liquid fizzed, giving off a slight crackling noise. Replacing the plunger, Tim cleared the air from the syringe.

  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 hou
rs.”

  39

  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.

  The photos of the Stork and the Mastersons flashed off the screen, replaced by a singing guy in a bird suit advertising a chicken joint. Still no mention of Tim, no photo.

  “I can’t believe you’d be so fucking irresponsible to force a confrontation on a playground,” Robert said. “We had guns drawn, with kids around. Someone could have gotten hurt.”

  “Someone did get hurt.”

  “Not hurt enough.” The snap of a Zippo punctuated his point, followed by the sound of smoke blowing across the receiver. “The press now, our faces-shit. Why’d you have to go and do that? You fucked us all.” Something in Robert’s voice gave way, revealing his sense of betrayal and a measure of desperation. “And Dumone-” His voice cracked, and the words shut off like water from a fast-turned spigot.

  Tim was unsure how to respond, so he didn’t. He wasn’t eager to prolong the call-he wanted to get off and call Hansen.

  “I don’t hear your name on these reports,” Robert said. “What’d you cut a deal?”

  “No. I’m going down, too. On a slight delay.”

  “This won’t stop us.”

  “I didn’t figure.”

  “You just turned this into an endgame. We got shit to lose now.” Robert’s laugh sounded part cough, though it wasn’t. “If you or any other piece-of-shit L.A. law-enforcement flunkies get in our way, you’re gonna eat lead. This is our one true deed. We get nothing from it. No cash, no fame. It’s public-service work. We’re gonna…”