The Kill Clause (19 page)

“I’ll just leave it here.”

Another arm wave, this one vicious.

As Tim set the bottles on the counter, he quickly swapped earpieces.

“Live in two,” someone shouted.

“Diffuse the fill light!” Yueh shrieked. “You’ll have my pores looking like potholes.”

One of Lane’s no-neckers, his forearm decorated with a bald eagle tattoo, swept past Tim, heading for the metal briefcase. As Tim walked toward the door, he gestured for the guard to wipe powdery residue from his chin. Back in the sterile hall, he got Yueh screaming commands in stereo, her voice moving through the walls and shrilling from the monitors overhead. The first note of the KCOM jingle announced the show’s start, granting the building blissful respite from her stridency.

By the time Tim reached the front elevator, this one smooth and slick with a TV screen embedded in the brushed-stainless-steel panel, Yueh’s on-air honeyed tone was pinch-hitting. “…haven’t seemed to express much remorse over those children and men and women who died.” Her brow furrowed slightly, approximating genuine puzzlement.

Tim stood to the front of the car, in the security camera’s blind spot. The interior was exclusively metal—no mirroring through which a second camera could be monitoring.

“Those people were working for a fascist, tyrannical cause. The Census intrusion is a communitarian strike against principled individualism, against the free, independent, constitutional republic that men like me are fighting to reestablish. A list of our citizens, available to whoever digs through a federal filing cabinet…” Lane snickered, his fingers rasping across his patchy beard. “Do you think our Founding Fathers had this in mind? How much we make? What ethnicity we are? Where we live? There’s a war going on in this country, in case you haven’t noticed, and the Census is more ammunition for our so-called leaders. They’re launching a full-scale offensive against American sovereignty and rights—
God-given
rights, not
government-granted
rights.”

“Census data isn’t available to other branches of the government, Mr. Lane. Surely you’re exaggerating the—”

“Did you know, Ms. Yueh, that the Census list was used in 1942 to round up Japanese-Americans and throw them in internment camps?”

Her smile clicked on like a flashlight, but the split-second delay showed she’d been caught flat-footed. Tim couldn’t resist a smirk. Score one for the bad guy.

He slid his thumb along the silver remote device in his pocket. It had a flip top like a lighter, which hid a single black button. He’d estimated its range conservatively—it would extend at least ten strides from the building’s front doors.

Lane continued imparting gems of wisdom. “Democracy is four wolves and one sheep voting on what’s for dinner. Liberty is the sheep with an M-60 telling the wolves where to stick it. The government is impinging on us, our rights, nibbling away at us, nibbling away. That attack on the Census Bureau was justice being administered.”

The elevator doors dinged open in the lobby. From janitors to bean counters, KCOM workers were gathered together, watching the interview on the massive screen on the west wall. One woman stood frozen in place, Jamba Juice straw inches from her open mouth. Scanning the lobby crowd were four uniformed LAPD officers and—from the preponderance of fanny packs—quite a few undercovers.

Tim walked the path he’d mentally charted out, keeping to the edges of the cameras’ fields of vision.

Lane’s voice boomed off the marble floor and bare walls. “At its least harmless, the Census is an apparatus to serve the expansion of the welfare state. In this country, today, we pay a higher percentage of our earnings in taxes than serfs once did.”

“Serfs didn’t
have
inco—”

“And the federal bank is an even bigger perpetration of treason by our usurping government.”

Yueh’s face hardened into her trademark expression, the one used in commercials describing her as “hard-hitting.” “You’ve done everything here but answer the first question I asked. Are you at all sorry that seventeen little boys and girls are dead, that sixty-nine men and women are dead?”

Lane’s smile sprang up fast and crooked. “‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of tyrants.’”

Tim crossed the lobby, hand jammed in his pocket, thumb working the lid of the remote device like a rabbit’s foot. “‘
Patriots
and
tyrants,’” he muttered. He tucked his chin to his chest as he neared the revolving doors and their attendant lenses overhead. A quick spin and he was out on the pavement.

Neither Yueh nor Lane relaxed their postures; they remained squared off, predators gauging vulnerability.

The crowd outside surged and ebbed. People had red ribbons pinned to their jackets. Someone was murmuring in rage. A man wearing a fuzzy hat with earflaps watched the TVs in the front window, his mouth agape, his cheeks glistening with tears. Tim counted his steps from the revolving doors. Four…five…six…

Melissa Yueh’s face loomed seventeen times in close-up. Her jaw was set, her eyes shone coal-dark and pissed—the first show of the substance beneath her persona. “You’ve avoided answering my question again, Mr. Lane.”

In the quiet of the street two blocks down, the now-unmarked Chevy van coasted silently to the curb. Tim flipped up the lid on the remote device, rested his thumb on the button. A woman keened softly in the arms of a man.

Lane seemed to gather a sudden, fierce energy. His body tightened and he leaned forward, seventeen images moving in concert, his finger jamming down into the table so hard it bent and whitened. “All right, bitch. Am I sorry they died?
No
. Not if it brings attention to—”

Tim clicked the button, and Jedediah Lane’s head exploded in mosaic.

RAYNER’S CONFERENCE ROOM
was all postsweat chills and high energy. Robert and Mitchell paced on opposite sides of the conference table while the Stork, kneading out a cramp in his left hand and basking in an almost postcoital glow, sat calmly between Rayner and Ananberg.

Ananberg wore the sleeves of her thin black sweater pushed up to her elbows, her collar tips peeking out with J. Crew perfection. Tim caught her staring at him a few times, her dark, shiny eyes flashing quickly away.

Dumone stood with one hand resting paternally on Tim’s shoulder—which Tim allowed and even didn’t mind—the other holding a
remote with which he slow-advanced the explosion of Lane’s head on the overhead TV.

First Lane’s eyeballs ejected from their orbits. The skin covering his scalp and face balloon-swelled, then split, his mandible blown off in a single piece. Then his entire head seemed to dissipate at once, to crumble with the slow-motion horror of an avalanche starting. Lane’s body remained stiffly in the seat, perfectly headless, tie still set firmly against the collar, one finger vehemently stabbed down into the table.

The camera did a
Blair Witch
swing, catching scrambling techs, militia goons, and Melissa Yueh watching with an expression of unadulterated wonder, a plasma splat of gray matter clinging to her cheek just beneath a mascara-heavy eye.

Dumone froze the screen. Ananberg inhaled sharply, her chest jerking a bit, her lips parting. She caught herself quickly, her usual seen-it-all complacency again taking hold of her features, an expression of icy amusement. Rayner’s face was white, save for disks of color at the heights of his cheeks. He propped his elbows on the table, resting his chin on the bridge of his laced fingers, and exhaled loudly.

Robert passed Mitchell, and the two slapped hands. “Motherfucking genius.”

Mitchell’s face, softer than Robert’s, was flushed with excitement. “Brilliant. I’d forgotten—the slightest explosion in the external acoustic meatus can induce massive intracranial pressure. Open a head right up.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Right there.” Robert strode over and grabbed Tim in a forceful embrace, giving him a faceful of rough shoulder fabric laced with nicotine. He shook Tim once, hard, and set him down. Though Robert was a good several inches shorter than Tim, he was undeniably more solid, his thick arms and legs seeming part of a single, immutable block.

Tim took a step back, away. “What’s next? A victory lap, then we douse Rayner with the Gatorade cooler?”

His comment was lost in the excitement; Dumone alone took note, fixing Tim with his solemn blue eyes.

Rayner clicked through the channels. News updates all around.

“—perhaps from a rival militia group or an FBI operative—”

The Stork raised his arms like a traveling preacher. “It has begun.”

“This will certainly raise public visibility,” Rayner said. “And contribute to the execution’s deterrence potential.”

Robert cracked a pleased smile. “Yeah, I’d say blowing Motherfucker’s head off during prime time will sure as shit get the message out.”

“It’s sufficiently high-profile that now we can back off and do safer, isolated hits,” Dumone said. “Everyone will still know it’s us.”

Robert finally sat, his knee hammering up and down, his hands curling the thick phone book.

The Man on the Street—this incarnation a puffy-jacketed one with a goatee—offered his opinion to an out-of-frame reporter. “I say good riddance, man. A scumsuck like that, sneaks through the law on some”—his next two words, presumably too colorful for the airwaves, were bleeped out—“got the death penalty he deserves. I’m a father of three children, and I don’t want some guy like that out there, who we all know killed a bunch of kids.” He leaned toward the camera now, in hi-mom posture. “Hey, I say whoever smoked the guy, if you’re out there, good job, man.” He flashed dueling thumbs-ups before the camera cut away.

“Well,” Ananberg said, “now we have our moral sanction.”

“Don’t be a snob, Jenna,” Rayner said. “We don’t just want to hear from judges and slick media commentators.”

“Yes, how we loathe slick media commentators.”

Rayner ignored the barb. “I’ll have a full media report ready by the time of our next meeting. Friday evening, shall we say?”

Tim glanced at the painting of Rayner’s son, behind which the safe and Kindell’s case binder waited. Rayner followed his gaze and winked. “Two cases down. Five to go.”

“You boys did well,” Dumone said. “You should feel great.”

“Right,” Tim said.

•Robert and Mitchell were waiting by the Toyota truck. As Tim passed, he took note of the tiny clean circles on the otherwise-dirty back license plate, right around the screws, indicating a recent change. Robert caught his arm and gave a squeeze. It seemed as if a good clench could snap Tim’s humerus.

“Let’s go for an unwinder,” Robert said.

The Stork stood for a moment, as if waiting for an invitation to be extended, then climbed into his van and drove away.

Tim stood by his car.

“Come on,” Mitchell said. “The post-op drink. A tradition we dare not break.”

Robert held up the phone book he’d taken from inside, letting it fall open to the section he’d marked with a thumb.
LIQUOR STORES
.

Robert stepped aside, and, after a hesitation, Tim slid across the front seat to the middle. The brothers climbed in on either side of him, the doors slamming in unison. Mitchell drove fast and skillfully. Tim
sat hunched in the middle, the breadth of two sets of Masterson shoulders leaving him little torso space. Deltoids poked into him unforgivingly on the turns, pounding from Tim’s subconscious his relief that Robert and Mitchell were—ostensibly—on his side.

Mitchell stopped at a liquor store off Crenshaw and headed into the store. He emerged with a brown paper bag, about two six-packs wide, which he threw in the back. He pulled off his black Members Only jacket, rolled a pack of Camels in his white T-shirt sleeve, and climbed back in.

“That was a hell of a bang you built,” Tim said.

Mitchell kept his eyes on the road. “I know a few things.”

He drove the speed limit, threading through downtown. When he turned off Temple, Tim realized where they were going. They arrived at a grand metal gate, the sole break in the ten-foot fence surrounding Monument Hill. Three parallel wires ran atop the fence at one-foot intervals, emitting a low hum. Mitchell rolled down the window, removed an electronic access-control card from the glove box, and held it out the window before the post-mounted pad of the proximity reader. The card emitted a series of blips as it searched for the matching frequency, and then the gate clicked open with a resonant shifting of inner bolts.

Mitchell tapped the access-control card against his thigh. “The keys to the city. A little gift from the Stork.”

They left asphalt behind, driving up the well-worn dirt path, the Census Memorial’s one-hundred-foot silhouette breaking the purple-black sky above. On the radio Willie Nelson was crooning about all the girls he’d loved before.

When Mitchell put the truck in park, neither he nor Robert made to get out. It was dead quiet up here, just the darkness and the wind whistling through the monument.

“You did a fine job,” Robert said slowly. “But we don’t like being kept out of the loop like that.”

Tim sat crushed between them, keeping his unease from showing, deciding whose throat he’d throw an elbow into first if the situation got ugly, which it looked like it might.

Robert tossed the phone book into Mitchell’s lap. “Show our friend your trick.” He nodded at Tim. “You’ll like this. Come on, Mitch. Let’s see it.”

A faint scowl etched Mitchell’s face. He picked up the phone book and balanced it on the points of his upturned fingers, a magician’s show of its three inches of thickness. Then he gripped it along the cut side in both hands, his thumbs a few inches apart. He flexed, and the book buckled. His arms began to shake. Veins stood out on his neck.
His eight knuckles went white. A split snaked through the cover, a thin white river on a yellow sea. His lip was curled, a fringe of flesh and mustache, his teeth exposed like a snarling dog’s. His breath came harder. The muscles popped up on his forearms, distinct and stone-hard, peaks on mirrored mountain ranges. His entire torso was quaking.

A sound escaped Mitchell—deeper than a cry, more controlled than a grunt—and the book gave with a pleasing whoosh, ripping apart, the rent edges layered with brief ledges of page like compressed sandstone in a cliff wall. He tossed the two chunks of phone book on the dash, red draining from his face, and took the sweat off his forehead with a wipe of his T-shirt. He and Robert glanced at Tim from either side with a certain schoolyard smugness.

Mitchell kneaded one forearm, then the other. Lightly freckled and covered with blond hair, they were nearly as thick as Tim’s biceps.

“Whatever blows your dresses up, ladies.” Tim’s shirt was sweat-pasted to his lower back, but he kept his voice casual and unimpressed. “Now that the arts and crafts are over, what do you say we have that drink and call it a night?”

After a tense pause, Mitchell smiled, and Robert followed his lead. They climbed out, the truck creaking with relief, and stood on the hilltop. Industrial-tire imprints crushed the dirt into patterns. The ground up here was malleable, the dirt auburn red, like finely milled clay. A scattering of sawhorses and pallets broke up the head-high piles of metal sheets. Thick plastic drop cloths snapped in the breeze.

Nyaze Ghartey’s concept—a metallic tree, each branch representing a child killed, the crown outstretched protectively like an umbrella—had seemed to Tim pompous and distastefully abstract, but he had to admit now that there was a certain resonance to the sculpture. The framework of the piece was largely complete, though the metal planes had fleshed out only about two-thirds of it. Wood scaffolding covered the structure from top to bottom; the design itself emerged, organic and mysterious, a darker self lurking within the ordered rectangles. The leaves, metal and Bernini-thin, seemed mid-flutter on the branches.

Half a quotation had been chiseled into a flat-sided boulder at the front of the monument:
AND THE LEAVES OF THE TREE WERE FOR

To its left a turned-off Sky-Tracker spotlight, the type that shot a mile-high beam of beckoning light at movie premieres and cheesy car sales, sat dormant. Tim could barely make out the small hatch in the trunk of the tree through which the spotlight would slide and illuminate the tree from the interior with the proverbial thousand points of light.

An ambitious task, to outdo the Hollywood sign, but a task accomplished.

Tim walked over and pulled three Buds from the bag. He handed one to Mitchell and offered another to Robert, who shook his head. “Can’t,” he said, rustling in the bag himself and coming up with a Sharp’s.

Robert popped the top and took several deep gulps, draining half the bottle. He gazed at the tree before them. “I usually don’t like modern crap,” he said. “But this, this is all right.”

“It’s like Braque,” Mitchell said. “All planes and different perspectives. Do you know Braque?”

Robert and Tim shook their heads, and Mitchell shrugged off the reference self-consciously. Robert circled slowly, his boots kicking up puffs of dust, drawing close to his brother’s side as if by genetic pull. Mitchell lit two cigarettes and handed one to Robert, and they smoked and stood side by side, solid and immobile like two inverted triangles of hammered steel, sucking Camels, Mitchell with his sleeve-cuffed pack of cigs, Robert with his jacket collar turned up, both of them humming along to “Georgia on My Mind” beneath bristled mustaches as if no one had bothered to show up and tell them the seventies were over. Mitchell’s face, though less severe than Robert’s, held a certain acuteness, a sharpness of perception that Tim had not previously seen. The brothers were beside each other, but Mitchell’s elbow was in front of Robert’s, and he stood square-shouldered while Robert’s shoulders tilted slightly toward him in a vague hint of deference.

Robert raised his beer, and the three bottles clinked, a somber toast.

“A glowing tree is nice, but it ain’t gonna solve dick,” he said. “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.”

“Water the tree with the blood of retribution,” Mitchell said.

He and his brother laughed at the formality, the bad poetics.

The twins’ standing to either side of Tim made him claustrophobic, not just because of their bulk and proximity but because their sameness was disorienting. Mitchell sat on the dirt. Robert and Tim followed suit.

“It wears you down,” Robert said, “seeing good people take it from the wrong end, seeing the motherfuckers reign supreme, no remorse, no hesitation, no…”

“—accountability,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah. A part of me decided after our sister died that I wouldn’t lie down no more, and so now I’m standing up, even though it’s not what
I would of stood up for before. Lesser of two evils and all that. And I’ve made my decision, and it’s the right one, and I’ll tell you what—I won’t lose a second’s sleep over the pieces of shit we execute. Not a fuckin’ second. We gotta stay firm and committed, guys like us. Not give in to cunts like Ananberg.” Robert tilted his face back and shot a stream of cigarette smoke at the moon, patches of dirt coloring his denim jacket at the elbows. “I guess I see things clearer now, about what needs to get done. It’s like we’re stuck in this…in this…”

“—conundrum—” Mitchell said.

“—where we’re fucked if we do and we
get
fucked if we don’t.”

“They say the worst cynics are frustrated idealists,” Tim said.

Mitchell drained his beer and popped a new one. “You think we’re cynics?”

“I don’t know what you are.”

The wind kicked up, making the scaffolding groan, sending red puffs up off the ground.

“We couldn’t wait to get started,” Robert said. “It’s the waiting that kills you. You find out that your little sister was brutally murdered, and then you’re…”