The Kill Clause (46 page)

From the beginning Tim had tried to understand the Mastersons’ odd mix of resentment toward Tim and horror over Ginny’s death. The resentment was guilt gone bad; the horror was their own revulsion at having her blood on their hands. He recalled Mitchell’s words on the telephone:
We were gonna cut you a break, leave you be. Part of us figures we owe you.

“Well, Kindell’s gonna pay now,” Robert said. “We’ll do him for you. It’ll be a statement, even, to this hellhole of a city. A little…”

“—tribute—” Mitchell’s muffled interjection.

“—for all the other pukes out there to see. The first step of the next phase,
our
phase. It’ll say, ‘We got him. And you’re next, motherfucker.’”

“I can’t let you do that.”

Robert’s voice was shot through with intensity and menace. “Are you really gonna fight to save the life of the man who killed your daughter? This piece of shit deserves to die.”

Kindell’s image came to Tim quickly and vividly, as it always did. The crop of fuzzy hair, so much like animal fur, capping the flat forehead. The wet, insensate eyes, devoid of emotional comprehension. He thought of the relief Kindell’s absence from the world would afford him. At the moment he could imagine nothing more disagreeable than extending himself to save his life. “I happen to agree. But that call isn’t ours to make.”

“Oh? He’s bleeding here in Mitch’s hands. So tell me, whose call is it if it ain’t ours?” He chuckled. “And lemme warn you while we’re at it—we know you’re double-dealing with the marshals. Any sign of any car, we cap Kindell and shoot our way out. And believe us, we’ll know. We got our ears to the ground.”

Tim looked at the radio scanner on the chair.

“You forget, Rackley, we surveilled you for the better part of a year. We know when you were toilet trained. We knew how you’d react when Ginny died, how to fold you right into the Commission. We predicted you and played you like a fucking board game. We go head-to-head, you’re gonna lose. We
know
you, Rackley.”

“Like you knew Kindell?”

“Better. We operated side by side with you. Next time we see you, we’re gonna break it off in you.”

“Vivid image.”

“Don’t get in the way of what we’re accomplishing here.”

“Your righteousness is a joke,” Tim said. “And if you think I’m gonna leave this city at the mercy of you or your brother, you’re even more deranged than I thought.”

Robert let out a sharp hiss of disgust.

Tim’s rage narrowed to a single point of calm, the eye of the hurricane. “I’m coming for you.” He raised his pistol and shot the telephone. It shifted and crumpled a bit. No sparks, no flying shrapnel—it was far less satisfying than he’d anticipated. He stood a few minutes in the quiet kitchen, waiting for his anger to burn itself out.

Clicking through the radio scanner’s settings confirmed his worst suspicions—the Stork had managed to get ahold not only of LAPD tactical frequencies but also those of the marshal duty-desk radio, which corresponded with all deputies in the field. The radio echo he’d heard over the telephone meant that the Masterson boys—wherever they were—were well apprised of in-progress law-enforcement movement throughout the city. He couldn’t know if Bear’s cell-phone frequency was also being monitored; for the time being he’d have to assume that any communication with the authorities would tip his hand.

Returning to the dining room, he finished glancing through some of the Stork’s oddly animated inventions before turning his focus to the copper cage. No keyboard vibrations going anywhere through that thing.

He leaned over and stared at the bizarre jumble of words on the computer screen.

“What the hell?” he murmured.

Letters scrolled across the screen as if they’d been typed:
what the hell

Tim found the outpointed microphone atop the monitor and spoke into it. “You’re a speech-to-typing program.”

The screen responded again:
you’re a speech to typing program

He scrolled up the screen. It had picked up the majority of his conversation with Robert in the kitchen, though only his own utterances.

I’m quaking in my still echoes he’s dead you have kindle

The speakerphone must not have been loud enough for the mike to pick up Robert’s responses.

He scanned up farther, taking in the Stork’s frantic remarks to him through the bedroom door, the computer hypothesizing about unclear words:
please just go I’m sorry I tried two shoot you missed her rackety I can’t go with you and bereft I can’t

Scrolling all the way to the top, Tim discovered that the Stork had turned on the speech-recognition software to compose a letter.

The computer approximation of the Stork’s dialogue to Tim through the back door continued, winding up with
stork stork stork what the hell you’re a speech to typing program.

Clearly the software had to be guided with additional audio commands to render sentences meaningfully; the Stork had ceased overseeing it when he’d gone into the kitchen to answer the landline. The farther he’d been from the mike, the less faithfully the program had transcribed his inadvertently recorded dialogue. His speech impediment probably hadn’t helped much either.

Tim picked up from
hello hello Robert,
trying to figure out the sentence breaks:

doughnut use this lie I tolled you the new foams are clear
—so far, so good.

The Stork had reached for a cell phone first when the phone had rung in his house. Remembering that he’d set it back down on the table, Tim searched and found it behind a stack of discarded keyboards. He scanned through the programmed names. Only two: “R” and “M.”

Pocketing the phone, Tim turned his attention back to the screen:

your second payment was off buy too hunter I counted it twine I’m out I doughnut car this has gotten crazy since mister rackety leek too the press I wow leaf my house you done need me for survey lands

Tim got stuck at
the money mint is clear at night

He pulled a pad over and jotted down variations.

Money man. Money print. Munitions.

And the following sentence—
good line of site done the kill on all side
—was no clearer.

Good line of sight to the kill from all sides?

He dropped the pen and thumped the notepad in frustration, his hand leaving a dirty imprint. He decided to move on.

The next few transcribed sentences were much easier to interpret:

I’m not coming especially too night too much heat no surrey and even if Ida considerate it would cost you more than that

Tim scratched his hairline with the end of the pen. Whatever the specifics, Robert and Mitchell were planning to kill Kindell tonight. Tim reflexively glanced at his watch: 11:13
P
.
M
. The Mastersons had presumably called the Stork because they were ready to enact the next step in their plan; Tim didn’t have much time to intercept them.

The Stork’s reaction to the sound of Tim’s interruption followed next on the screen:
hang on Jesus hang on

And then his first words to Tim:
mister rackety I’m glad you fund me since I could nut find you

Tim returned to the first problem noun, “the money mint,” no doubt the key.

What would be clear at night? Did the Stork mean “clear” as in “safe,” or “clear” in the visual sense? Probably “safe,” since in the sentence before he was arguing that he wasn’t needed for surveillance. What would be clear at night? A place of business. A public place. An actual mint? A planned robbery didn’t seem to fit. Done the kill. Down the hill? Money man clearance?

Tim studied the reddish mark he’d left on the notepad—the smudge of his palm, four finger streaks barely visible. The stain should have been a brownish mix of dirt and grease from the tools, but the dust that had come off on his hand from the Stork’s boot had colored it almost auburn.

money mint

Where had he seen dirt that shade?

done the kill the money mint is clear at night

The slap of delayed recognition. The buzz of adrenaline. Tim bolted to his feet, forgetting the aching in his stomach. The chair rolled back lazily across the room and hit the wall.

Robert tilted his face back and shot a stream of cigarette smoke
at the moon, two patches of dirt coloring his denim jacket at the elbows.

money mint.
Monument.

The monument is clear at night. Good line of sight down the hill on all sides.

I’ll tell you what would make a good memorial. One guilty and unconvicted fuck swinging from each branch. That’s what I’d like. That’s the kind of memorial we oughta build for those victims.

At tomorrow’s first light of day, downtown L.A. would have a grim silhouette greeting it over the skyline.

It’ll be a statement, even, to this hellhole of a city. A little tribute for all the other pukes out there to see. The first step of the next phase,
our
phase.

Working quickly, Tim defused the booby trap in the hall, cutting the trip wire and writing an immense warning on the floor with the Sharpie. He resisted the urge to spend time figuring out how to reach Bear through a secure line. Whatever chance he’d have of bringing this conflict to a nonviolent resolution—admittedly slim—would be lost with flashing lights and a marshals-LAPD barricade. A stealth approach was likely necessary to save Kindell’s life.

On his way out, Tim stopped to retrieve his jacket. The Doberman approached him and nuzzled his hand shyly, its eyes red and submissive.

TIM EASED DOWN
the tiled corridor and slid into Room 17, checking the door numerals against the crumpled slip of paper in his hand. Bowrick sat cross-legged in bed, blanket drawn around his shoulders like an Indian chieftain. He started, then pressed his hand to his chest, relief washing across his face. “Can’t you ever knock like a normal person?”

Tim tapped his lips with his index figure and gestured for Bowrick to follow. They made their way out the back entrance, the silence broken only by the admitting nurse’s humming in the lobby.

They’d driven two blocks before Bowrick spoke. “Man, you’re just in time. Nurse Needlestick’s been foaming at the mouth, wanting insurance cards, asking billing questions, all kinds of crap. For the
forty-eight-hour hold, you’re free and clear, then they Grand Inquisition your ass.” He glanced up as a green freeway sign floated overhead. “Where we going?”

“You still have your Monument Hill access-control card?”

Bowrick fumbled his key chain out of his pocket and held up the card.

“The two guys who tried to kill you are there. They’ve got a hostage, who they’re planning to hang from the tree. I’m gonna surprise them. I need you to brief me on the monument.”

Bowrick let out a pensive whistle, then chewed his bottom lip and picked at the scab on his arm. “Only way in is the front gate, ’cause the fence is high and they run an electric current across the top. That’s the bad news. The good news is, the gate’s out of view from the monument and quiet when it opens. Steer clear of the dirt path—you can see it pretty well from up top. Just east of it is the most brush cover, and it’s a steeper approach, so it’ll keep you pretty well hidden.”

“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 the 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.