The Kill Clause tr-1

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “How about the monument? How do you get up on it? Platform elevator or anything?”

  “Nope. Climb the scaffolding, that’s all. On the back side, there’s some two-by-fours in place like a ladder. They use pulleys to hoist shit up, drop-tubes to junk stuff from up high.”

  “What kind of equipment is available? That can be used as weapons?”

  “Mostly locked up at night. Probably a few hammers lying around. Oh-and a sandblaster. That fucker’ll strafe your ass, lift skin. Then there’s the usual suspects-steel plates, boards, nails. I’ll show you as we go.”

  “You’re gonna stay down the hill. I’ve gone through too much effort for you to get killed now.”

  “Why would you care?” His tone, sharp and little-boy bitter, cut through the collaborative mood they’d briefly established. He shifted in his seat, his face taking on a reddish hue Tim usually associated with crying. “Answer me. You’ve dragged me into enough because of all this. I’ve gone along with all your crazy shit. I want to know.”

  Tim fought away the first responses that came, knowing Bowrick deserved something more. “Look.” He moistened his lips. “When I got to your house to kill you, when I saw you, I felt like I was looking into a mirror.”

  Bowrick’s eyes shifted across the dash. “A mirror. Right.”

  “Look at me. Don’t look down, away. That’s just arrogance.”

  Bowrick held his gaze, though his face paled and his hands fidgeted in his lap.

  “You think you’re so bad nobody else can look you in the eye. Well, I can. We’ve both killed people for the same reasons. And I see that you’re at the beginning of a process that just might be redemption. And I’m betting on that.”

  “What if I don’t want that responsibility?”

  “If you screw up, I can always come back and shoot you later.”

  Bowrick let out a short stutter of a laugh. His grin faded when he saw Tim wasn’t smiling. “Okay.” He nodded, his pale face flecked red with acne. “Redemption. Hell. I never had anything like this I’m supposed to carry until now.”

  “And?”

  “That’s fine by me. But you better keep studying it, too. Redemption. Because if you’re just gonna look at me and think, ‘Hell, that kid ain’t as bad as I’ve been convincing myself, so maybe I’m not either,’ then, shit, you haven’t learned a damn thing. It’s a path not a status.” He let out a jerky breath. “And I don’t know shit about redemption, but I been walking that path long enough to know you gotta keep walking.”

  They came around a bank in the freeway, and there it was, its dark silhouette visible even against the black sky, overlooking both downtown and the 101 like a guardian angel. They reached the base of Monument Hill within minutes, left the car on the street, and crept to the gate. Bowrick flashed his access-control card at the pad, and the gate whirred slowly open. They slipped inside and vectored east of the path, Bowrick leading, Tim clutching his binoculars so they wouldn’t make noise brushing against his chest. He’d taken Betty from the collection of tech treats in the Stork’s dining room, and he held her respectfully at his side, the earpiece coiled around her handle. The Stork had been correct about one thing: There was a good line of sight down the hill on all sides.

  Bowrick extended his hand like a shark fin, tracing the route Tim should take up the rugged hillside. Tim nodded, then handed him the car keys and the Nokia, catching his eye so his meaning was conveyed. Gesturing Bowrick to stay put, he began his cautious approach. After a while he bellied back toward the path, forging through a stand of chaparral that blocked his vantage, the speedloaders in his pocket digging into his thigh.

  He emerged about a hundred yards from the hilltop. Up ahead loomed the monument, now a complete tree, the metal hide having been laid over the skeletal supports of the tree’s final branches. It remained ensconced within the web of scaffolding, a harmony of primitive planes and angles, a rudimentary form eager to emerge and shake off its shell. On the plateau at the monument’s base sat a Ford Expedition and a Lincoln, parked nose to nose, visible between stacks of metal sheets. Though no one was in evidence, Tim discerned the faint murmur of voices. The uphill breeze quickened, just slightly, but enough to overpower any sound from the hilltop. He aimed Betty up-slope in the direction of the cars, but she picked up little aside from the rumbling of wind across the parabola.

  One of the Mastersons stepped into view between two tall piles of metal, and then the other. The dark figures were unmistakable, the swollen chests, the hard taper of the sides, all top-heavy muscle and bellicose posture. The first put his foot up on a sawhorse and lit a cigarette, arm bent across the raised knee. Through the binoculars Tim watched the ribbon of smoke unspool from the dark face. The glowing point of the butt lowered; the mouths moved in conversation. The mood of the twin shadows was stern, focused, decisive.

  One pulled open the trunk of the Expedition and yanked a bound man to the edge of the tailgate.

  Kindell.

  Gripping him with a fistful of fabric at the shoulder blades and a clench of the belt, the man steeled his muscles. Kindell remained limp and contracted, hands bound behind his back, knees curled to his stomach. His captor tugged him hard from the tailgate, letting him drop the four feet to the dirt, doing nothing to break his fall.

  Kindell landed flat on his chest and face. Despite the breeze, Betty picked up his pained gasping.

  Robert and Mitchell were discussing something. Beneath their voices Tim made out a few spats of radioed correspondence from the service desk officer, in all likelihood issuing from a portable radio that was a counterpart to the one in the Stork’s kitchen.

  Through the earpiece Tim heard “…under wraps until…then come back…”

  The first shadow had his foot resting on Kindell’s back, as naturally as it had rested atop the sawhorse a few minutes ago. They seemed to arrive at some conclusion, for the second figure picked up Kindell and, swinging him once to pick up momentum, tossed him into the trunk of the Lincoln. He slammed the lid. Tim watched closely-no sign of either Masterson setting a booby trap in the trunk.

  The two turned and disappeared into the maze of pallets and junked wood.

  Tim crept out from cover and inched toward the two cars, but it wasextremely slow going since the sawhorses and heaps of building materials concealed myriad hiding places, and he had to zigzag back and forth to ensure he wasn’t leaving open a vulnerable angle. He reached the brink of the plateau and lay still in the waving foxtails, taking in the area in a long, slow sweep of the parabolic mike, earpiece snug in place, his right hand firm-gripping the. 357. He got nothing back from Betty but a tinny whimpering from the Lincoln’s trunk.

  He popped up and did a quick run to the nearest cover, diving behind a mound of jagged metal refuse, the bulletproof vest and clayred dirt not softening his fall enough to keep pain from screaming through his stomach.

  Still no sign of Robert or Mitchell. Plastic drop cloths fluttered everywhere-between stacked metal planes, beneath sawhorse legs, around corded bundles of boards. Tim scanned up the dark monument with the binocs, but it was hard to make out much more than the tree’s outline through the scaffolding. He could see the open hatch at the base of the trunk where the Sky-Tracker spotlight had been slid into the tree.

  He low-crawled to a rusting sandblaster about ten yards from the two vehicles, close enough that he could hear Kindell’s desperate thumping in the car trunk. Again Tim surveyed the plateau, his eyes picking through the heaps of gnarled metal and discarded cuttings, the resting machinery, the boxy rise of scaffolding.

  Kindell in the car trunk could very well be a baited trap. Tim rustled the Stork’s new Nextel from his pocket. Since Mitchell, as a demolition expert, was accustomed to keeping his cell phones turned off, Tim clicked the preset number to “R,” readied Betty, and hit “dial.” The faint chirping ring of a phone was immediately audible, and Tim fanned the parabolic mike back and forth, searching for the strongest signal. The cone climbed th
e trunk of the tree, fanned out over one of the branches. Robert was not visible, because the wooden platform of the scaffolding cut off almost the entire branch from view, but Tim got a strong ring through the earpiece. He figured Robert was probably up there preparing a noose for Kindell.

  The expected rough voice answered. “Robert.”

  Tim clicked the phone shut.

  Robert appeared at the edge of the branch scaffolding, as Tim hoped he might. Raising his fingers to his mouth, Robert whistled a single harsh note. There was movement to the side of the monument, and then Mitchell’s head poked up from a throw of scrubby brush; he’d been walking a surveillance patrol around the base of the monument while Robert readied the branch above.

  Blocked from their view by the stacks of metal, Tim dashed over and tried to open the trunk of the Lincoln, but it was locked. The doors were locked as well-no getting to the trunk release without breaking a window. His efforts led to invigorated thumping in the trunk, and Kindell’s muffled voice.

  “Doan urt me. Please lee me be.”

  Kindell’s loose, deaf enunciation brought fresh recollections, flooding Tim with revulsion.

  He jogged back behind the sandblaster and aimed Betty again in Robert and Mitchell’s direction, catching the tail end of their shouted discussion. “…on the Stork’s phone…keep an ear on the scanner…get me Kindell…”

  Mitchell started for the vehicles, his Colt glinting. Tim, crouched behind the blaster, was almost directly in his path. Mitchell drew near, approaching the car, and banged on the trunk with the barrel of the. 45. Kindell let out a shriek.

  His face twisted with disdain, Mitchell dug in his pocket for the keys.

  Tim braced himself, weapon up near his cheek, then stepped from cover. Mitchell caught sight of him breaking into the open, and at once both guns were up and aimed. Miraculously, neither one of them fired.

  A Mexican standoff.

  “Well,” Mitchell said. “Now what?”

  “You tell me.”

  The wind had picked up; Tim was pretty sure as long as no shots were fired Robert wouldn’t hear them from his position up high in the tree.

  They drew a little nearer, Mitchell’s left hand supporting the hairtrigger. 45 in his right. His eyes jerked to the monument, betraying his urge to yell for his brother. Hands regripping the pistol, Tim shook his head, and the look on Mitchell’s face made clear he understood what the price would be for shouting. His thick hand was steady on the gun, his finger curled through the trigger guard. Tim pictured him sitting in a parked van watching Ginny leave Warren Elementary, his eyes calm, a notepad in his lap. Mitchell following her silently, shadowing her through the streets she took on her route home.

  A Detroit cop, task-force member, explosive-ordnance tech. Stalking a seven-year-old girl who still used bunny ears to tie her shoes.

  Mitchell’s mustache broadened with his smile. “Don’t suppose you want to drop the guns and go at it man to man.”

  “Not on your life,” Tim said.

  They circled each other slowly within the ring of metal stacks, blocked from the monument’s view.

  “Let me tell you this,” Tim said. “I’ve fired nine shots in the line of duty, and they’ve all been hits. Eight of them have been kill shots.” He paused, moistened his lips. “If we throw down, you have no chance of surviving.”

  Mitchell mused on that, his head bobbing. “You’re right. I’m not a shooter.”

  He spread his arms wide, letting the gun dangle from his thumb. He tossed it to the left, aiming for the sandblaster. It bounced off the metal box, missing the “on” button by a few inches.

  Mitchell’s eyes went to the metal stack to his side. If anyone could lift a five-foot pane of half-inch steel by himself, it was Mitchell. Tim wasn’t about to take any chances.

  “On your knees. Arms wide. Turn around. Hands on your head now. That’s right. Not a noise.”

  Tim slide-stepped in on him, both hands on the gun. At the last moment he saw that the toes of Mitchell’s boots were curled rather than flat against the dirt.

  Mitchell pivoted and sprang. Tim laced his hand through the. 357 and hammered Mitchell across the face with a ball of fist and metal.

  Bone crunched.

  Mitchell staggered but did not drop. As he charged into Tim, his legs shoved against the ground, a linebacker gaining yards. He knocked Tim back into a stack of metal, jarring him, then the immense arms were a frenzied blur. The blows were even more devastating than Tim could have imagined. They were rapid and unremitting. They were car-crash powerful. They were rage and pain vented and embodied. Hunched protectively like a winded boxer on the ropes, Tim was wave-battered against the steel.

  A haymaker brought him to his knees.

  He’d have to shoot Mitchell or be killed. He brought the gun up, but then a shadow streaked toward Mitchell, flying up on his back, and Mitchell reeled, delivering a vicious elbow to the temple of his attacker. In the flash of an opening before Mitchell turned back, Tim delivered another gun-enforced blow, on the rise, directly between Mitchell’s legs. Mitchell expelled a hard gust of air, and then a dry heave pulled him down into a lean. Tim rose, blood running freely into his eyes, and hammered the gun down across Mitchell’s face.

  Mitchell fell, his mouth open against the ground, his breath kicking up puffs of dirt. Bowrick stirred beside him, a lattice of broken veins coloring his left temple and upper cheek. Tim turned quickly, looking behind him for Robert’s approach, but there was no sound save that of fluttering plastic and wind drawing across the plateau. Tim studied the monument but spotted no movement, no trembling of the scaffolding to indicate Robert’s descent. Bowrick rolled over and shoved himself up on all fours, his forehead wrinkling with pain. He reached over, pulling Mitchell’s gun from the holster, the barrel pointing at Mitchell’s chest.

  Tim tensed, dread locking the breath in his lungs.

  Bowrick glanced over at him, their eyes holding for a moment, then he slid the gun into his jeans, sat back on his heels, and looked at Tim expectantly.

  Tim gathered some cord from one of the wood stacks and double-bound Mitchell’s wrists behind his back, then his ankles. One of Mitchell’s eyes stared up at him, a glossy animal organ, all pupil. Tim’s first blow had broken his cheek badly; the skin sucked in beneath the eye like a drape pulled to an open window. Tim was gentle with the gag. He patted Mitchell down, pulling the car keys from his pocket.

  Bowrick sat with his elbows resting on his knees, watching Tim work. He spoke in a harsh whisper. “Where’s the guy they want to kill?”

  Tim pointed at the trunk of the Lincoln.

  “Why don’t we get him out of there?”

  Keeping his eyes on the monument, Tim crossed to Bowrick, lowering his voice so Mitchell couldn’t hear. “Can’t have him making noise. And he’s unpredictable-we don’t want him running around right now.” He tossed Bowrick the keys. “Get the hostage clear. Don’t open the trunk, don’t talk to him. Neutral it down the hill, nice and quiet. The metal stacks’ll block you from view part of the way down. Don’t turn on the car until you’re through the gate, then drive a few blocks, park somewhere out of sight, and stay alert. Keep the cell phone on. If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, split, call Deputy Jowalski at the U.S. Marshals Service, and explain the mess I dragged you into. And this time don’t come back, even if it is to save my ass.”

  Bowrick nodded, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door gently shut. The Lincoln began the solemn downhill roll, tires crackling softly on the dirt path, brake lights glowing in the night.

  Tim sat for a moment and mopped the blood from his forehead. One of Mitchell’s blows had opened up a seam just at his hairline; he’d have a scar on the left to match the rifle-butt wound from Kandahar. Another punch had struck his shoulder near the bullet-fragment wound; it had already swelled up. His torso felt like a nerve-filled skin bag holding rocks and razor blades. After a few moments the rush of blood into his eyes slow
ed, and he stood up, fighting off light-headedness.

  He retrieved Betty and the Stork’s phone and dialed Robert’s number again. Betty sourced the ring to the same branch, hidden from view by the scaffolding.

  Same gruff voice. “Robert.”

  Tim hung up. He circled the monument to the far side. If there was gunplay, Robert would have a tactical advantage firing down on him; there was no harder shot than one directly up.

  The scaffolding made for easy climbing. Leaving Betty behind, Tim worked his way up as silently as he could, minding every creak and shift. When possible he climbed the metal branches, as they gave off less noise than the wood. Every few moments he’d pause and strain his ears, listening for Robert’s movement, but the wind, especially as he got higher, drowned out most noise-a factor that also worked to his advantage. Metal plates were missing here and there, dark, empty gaps looking in on the hollow tree interior.

  About fifty feet off the ground, he paused, leaning against the cool metal of the trunk, drawing a deep breath, and hooking his fingers into a few of the monument’s myriad holes designed to beam out the spotlight’s glow. From this angle he had a clear view of the dirt path. The Lincoln drifted silently through the gate. He saw the lights blink on as the engine turned over, and then it pulled away.

  Tim inched his way up, hugging metal and wood, drawing a few splinters. He wound up on the platform supporting the branch opposite Robert’s, about three feet lower. Crouching on a knee, he withdrew the Stork’s phone from his pocket and dialed again. The phone’s chirping ring sounded clear and loud, just on the far side of the trunk. Tim kept the call active, sliding the Stork’s Nextel into his pocket. Double-handing his Smith amp; Wesson, he drew back to the far edge of his platform so he could get three steps of a running start.