The Kill Clause Part 19

Whistling casually, he popped open the door to the stairwell and stepped on the tenth-floor landing. The door swung shut behind him and locked. As if on cue, the door opened one floor up, and he heard the cushioned tap of Reeboks heading down the stairs. He hugged the railing, raising the dry-cleaned shirt high on his shoulder so it blocked half his face.

Susie swept by, a blur of curls and nylon. "Hi! Bye!"

Tim murmured a greeting and kept moving. By the time he reached the eleventh-floor landing, he had the hanger out from the shirt and untwisted, bent into an L terminating with the hook. He slid the hook beneath the narrow gap at the bottom of the door and rotated it until he felt it grab the handle inside. He tugged and got a satisfying click. Easing the door open, he entered the empty back kitchen.

The TV on the counter showed Melissa Yueh leaning over Lane as a tech affixed a mike clip to his shirt. "Just relax and make eye contact with me, not the camera. We're gonna get you your earpiece in a few minutes here so the producer can talk to you while we're live."

Several of Lane's militia groupies stood in the background, bodyguards with oversize arms and no idea where to put them. They were working hard at looking tough, trying to ignore the cameras and doing a bad job of it. A feisty production a.s.sistant moved them out of the shot, and they shuffled clumsily under his command, cattle driven by a sheepdog.

Tim triple-folded the hanger and stuffed it and the shirt into the trash bin beneath the sink. He pulled a Baggie, a plastic earpiece, and a single thread of dental floss from his back pocket. He pried open the earpiece, nestled the tiny detonator within the wiring, and snapped it shut. Dropping the earpiece into the Baggie, he then sealed the bag, knotted the top, and tied the dental floss around it. He swallowed the Baggie, holding the end of the floss. The floss pulled taut, holding the Baggie midway down his throat. He waited for his gag reflex to cease, then strung the floss between two of his molars.

Grabbing two small bottles of Evian from the fridge, he stuffed them into his back pockets and stepped into the hall. 8:46.

A stiff-postured LAPD cop and a tired KCOM guard sat on stools in front of a metal detector that led into the main corridors. Tim nodded and stepped through. The detector beeped loudly.

"You carrying a cell phone, keys?"

Tim shook his head.

The guard slid off his stool and wanded Tim, starting at his feet. When the wand reached his throat, it gave off an intense beeping. The guard stared at the gold cross resting on Tim's Adam's apple, rolled his eyes at the cop, and waved Tim through.

Tim turned into the men's room just past the guard station and ducked into a stall. Plucking the dental floss from between his molars, he gagged up the Baggie. It slid out, slick with saliva. He removed the earpiece, dropped it into his pocket, and flushed the Baggie. He stepped back out into the hall at precisely 8:49.

Craig Macma.n.u.s, all jaw and toothy grin, was barreling down the hall with a coworker, glancing at his beeper and winding up a joke about bicycling nuns. Tim timed the lowering of his head to fake-check his watch and brushed against Macma.n.u.s's side, lifting the ID and access-control cards clipped to his leather-weave belt.

"Oops. Sorry, Craig." Tim kept moving, not turning for a face-to-face. His hands worked quickly to remove Craig's ID card from the clip and replace it with his fake. The hall was completely empty, save three TVs suspended at intervals from the ceiling. Tim reached the forbidding double doors at the hall's end and flashed Macma.n.u.s's access-control card at the pad. The red light blinked green, and he stepped into the inner sanctum.

Here in the interview suite, impervious to binoculars and the probing eyes of window washers, Tim was on his own. Lane and Yueh were positioned at an immense wooden table, Charlie Rose style, and PAs were scurrying about, adjusting lighting and wincing under Yueh's orders. A black digital clock suspended above Yueh's head counted down to airtime-less than five minutes. The guard in the small booth to Tim's right was munching a powdered doughnut without apparent appreciation for caricature. Tim flashed his ID card, and the guard gave it a cursory glance, leaving a sugary thumb whorl over Tim's dour photo.

A tech wearing headphones fussed with a control board, the cables and wires threading back beneath a folding table to his side. Tim headed in his direction, brandishing one of the Evian bottles.

"Someone called over for water?"

The sound tech waved him off, barely looking up. Tim spotted an open metal briefcase on the table, a few pieces of gear nestled within its gray foam filling, including Lane's earpiece; as he'd guessed, Lane's men, extensively experienced with death threats, had brought all their own equipment for Lane's use.

"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, const.i.tutional 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-G.o.d-given rights, not rights, not government-granted government-granted rights." 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 j.a.panese-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 b.u.t.ton. 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 ma.s.sive 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 have inco-" 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. 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 p.i.s.sed-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 b.u.t.ton. 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, b.i.t.c.h. Am I sorry they died? No No. Not if it brings attention to-"

Tim clicked the b.u.t.ton, and Jedediah Lane's head exploded in mosaic.

19.

RAYNER'S CONFERENCE ROOM was all postsweat chills and high energy. Robert and Mitch.e.l.l 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 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. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. 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 pa.s.sed Mitch.e.l.l, and the two slapped hands. "Motherf.u.c.king genius."

Mitch.e.l.l's face, softer than Robert's, was flushed with excitement. "Brilliant. I'd forgotten-the slightest explosion in the external acoustic meatus can induce ma.s.sive 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 Motherf.u.c.ker's head off during prime time will sure as s.h.i.t 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 sc.u.msuck 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 sn.o.b, 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 Mitch.e.l.l were waiting by the Toyota truck. As Tim pa.s.sed, 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," Mitch.e.l.l 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 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. Mitch.e.l.l drove fast and skillfully. Tim sat hunched in the middle, the breadth of two sets of Masterson shoulders leaving him little torso s.p.a.ce. Deltoids poked into him unforgivingly on the turns, pounding from Tim's subconscious his relief that Robert and Mitch.e.l.l were-ostensibly-on his side.

Mitch.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l of a bang you built," Tim said.

Mitch.e.l.l 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. Mitch.e.l.l 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.

Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l'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 Mitch.e.l.l'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 Mitch.e.l.l-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.

Mitch.e.l.l 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, Mitch.e.l.l 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.