Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [89]
The truth.
“You know him?” Hardie asked.
“We ran a special about him, and his sister, a few days ago. I guess he figured he’d come here to tell me what he thought of the show. Isn’t that right, you son of a bitch?”
The lizard part of Hardie’s brain raced to keep up, but he thought he had it. Topless’s big plan. She’d set this in motion days ago. She couldn’t do it alone either. Lane had been right. The Accident People were indeed connected at the highest levels. Hardie wished more than ever that Deke were here right now.
“By the way, who are you?” Jonathan Hunter asked.
“I’m Charlie Hardie.”
“Yeah, but who are you? Why are you here? How did you know these people would be coming for us?”
“You’ve got a guardian angel somewhere.”
HARDIE.
The name lit up in Mann’s brain like pure neon rage.
HARDIE.
She knew they should have killed him in that hotel room, she advocated for it, pressed it, almost begged for it. You don’t leave a man like that alive. Not after what he’s seen. But Gedney insisted: his bosses wanted
HARDIE
kept alive, to be dealt with later, in a manner of their choosing. The narrative would be stronger for it, more airtight, they argued. One living psycho was always better than one dead one found at the scene. Even Lee Harvey was allowed to live for a period of time after the big job at Dealey Plaza. Mann again disagreed, saying that
HARDIE
was a god who needed to be put down, no fucking around, no fancy shit, because a man who’s too stubborn to die will be too stubborn to stay put, and god-fucking-damnit she should have listened to her gut on this one because now
HARDIE
was going to fuck everything up unless she was quick and smart and decisive and ended this now.
Now Hardie had this sputtering psycho—“Philip Kindred”—to deal with. He was still inching away, eyes rolling around in his head, as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Hardie crouched down next to him, poked him with the muzzle.
“How are they talking to you? Do you have an earpiece? Are they telling you what to do?”
“W-What are you talking about, man?”
“I know all about her, your boss with the big tits, so don’t pretend, nutboy. Just tell me how you were supposed to get out of here after killing the Hunters.”
There was another shriek on the other side of the living room. Hardie could only see the top half of the action, but clearly Evelyn Hunter was kicking the living shit out of the shot and bleeding psycho sister. “Honey, honey, honey,” Jonathan Hunter said, rushing across the room to his wife. Hardie turned his attention back to Philip. Stuck the gun in his face.
“I really don’t care if you live or die. I want to know the plan.”
“Okay, I’m not Philip Kindred. I’m only pretending to be him, oh please, God, don’t kill me.”
“Well, duh.”
“How were you getting out?”
“Th-Through the backyard.”
A.D.2 and Grip were supposed to have been the first ones in, anyway.
When enough time had elapsed, and the kill shots had rung out, A.D.2 and Grip were to play the roles of innocent by-standers—or in this case, gay Studio City joggers—just two lovers out after work, blowing off some steam, when suddenly they hear gunshots coming from a house, and they rush in because they swear they hear kids screaming (and how are they supposed to ignore that?) and they get to the living room just in time to see two grubby-looking people making their way out the sliding doors that lead to the backyard, and oh God, the mom and the dad on the floor, shot in the head and in the chest respectively, and then would come a frenzied call to 911 and the job would finally be over. A.D.2 and Grip had clean backgrounds that would check out. They’d be paid over the next few months to live their lives and serve as witnesses to this awful, senseless tragedy, make a court appearance or two, talk to the media when directed.
But now Mann sent them in early because there was really no other option.