Time to Kill (20 page)

On his journey east, however, as he needed it to appear that he remained 3,000 miles from where he might have been filmed, Mason rented a car, as Adam Peterson, and drove the 400 miles south from San Francisco to Los Angeles, not on the scenic coast route but on the inner, wind farm and cattle-shit-stinking inner highway, bill-capped, nose blowing, sun-glassed and crowd-immersed, studiously avoiding every prying-eyed security monitor. This was a precaution he continued to adopt – successfully he was sure – upon his arrival at La Guardia.

He travelled by crowded airport bus into Manhattan and, because it would feature, albeit briefly, in his re-acquaintance with the unsuspecting Peter Chambers and he wanted to be thoroughly familiar with everything about it, Mason checked into the Sheraton Hotel on Seventh Avenue – still alert to every electronic eye – hating the convention-cluttered, jostling lobby and bars and public rooms at the same time as recognizing how perfect their concealment was going to be.

Despite his rebirth, Mason held back from anything as naively symbolic as destroying his genuine identification documentation. He remained in the murmuring human beehive only long enough to set his room-intrusion traps, then walked to the Chase Manhattan on Wall Street to store everything of his Jack Mason persona in the safe deposit box, hesitating at the Glock and its limited ammunition. He decided against removing it until the following day, after hiring the car for the drive south. He was at his most exposed with the gun in his possession.

Two days before leaving San Francisco Mason had accessed his file in Patrick Bell's computer system and found the copy of Bell's carefully phrased preliminary letter to the Pennsylvania State prison authorities inviting their response to the formal complaint against Frank Howitt, with the reminder that he was already aware of the internal enquiry and Howitt's suspension from duty. Back in the Seventh Avenue hotel Mason checked again to discover there had been no response in the intervening four days. Neither was there any email traffic between the two parole officers. Anxious to avoid any unsupervised telephone contact between the women for as long as possible, Mason called Beverley at her San Francisco office, the approach rehearsed.

He told her he was looking into a couple of possibilities – that day he was actually in New York for a meeting – but as she knew there wasn't any financial necessity for his rushing into anything on the East Coast, just a condition of his parole he had to obey. He knew he could trust her not to discuss it with Glynis Needham, but he'd decided to do little more than go through the motions with anything the woman suggested. He had one or two things to sort out involving his mother's estate – she knew, too, that he'd been in prison when she'd died – but he hoped to get back to California within a month, to be with her again. She wasn't to think of vacancies before then but in the meantime he was going to register with computer employment agencies in Sacramento, Los Angeles and San Diego, to give himself as broad an opportunity spread as possible.

‘You really mean it, that you're coming back for good?' Beverley asked, eagerly.

‘What's it sound like?' He'd recovered everything, Mason decided, even how to manipulate women supposedly more intelligent or professionally streetwise not to be sucked into what Glynis quite rightly labelled bullshit.

‘It sounds wonderful.'

‘Don't say anything about it to Glynis, though. Not yet.'

‘She'll have to know sometime. She's your primary case officer.'

‘When it's all fixed up. I don't want anything to go wrong.'

‘Neither do I. I won't say anything. And you're right, you know you can trust me.'

‘When I come out I thought we might rent that chalet in Santa Barbara again,' said Mason, as an idea began to grow in his mind.

‘That would be wonderful, too. Missing me?'

‘Like hell. Missing me?'

‘Like hell. I don't have a number to call you?'

‘I'm moving around. I'll call you when I get a base.'

‘You OK?'

‘Sure. Why'd you ask?'

‘You sound … oh, I don't know. Too far away, I guess.'

‘Not for long.'

‘I hope not.'

‘Don't do anything, say anything, to Glynis, until I get back.'

‘Call me in between!'

‘Of course I'll call you in between. I've got to go now, to my meeting.'

‘Don't accept an offer if you're made one!'

‘I promise I won't,' laughed Mason, although not for the reason Beverley assumed.

The idea that had surfaced talking of renting the Santa Barbara chalet again was a good one. Mason determined, and he started on it immediately, searching out the websites of local newspapers around Chesapeake Bay. He quickly became disappointed at the apparent lack of what he specifically needed, which wasn't just to disappear but to become invisible, seen by no one, remembered by no one, identifiable by no one. He isolated a too limited selection of possibilities, none ideal, and worked his way through rentals at Annapolis and Lexington Park, touring as many as he could on virtual reality computer links. The viewing facility wasn't available for the fishing cottage he finally decided upon, actually on the shoreline about five miles outside Lexington Park, which was further away from Frederick than he wanted but according to the listed particulars stood totally alone, without any neighbouring properties. Mason fixed a viewing with the Lexington realtor-associated property management consultant, who assured him he had at least two other similar rentals on his books if the first choice didn't work out.

With the drive south ahead of him Mason rented his largest car so far, a Lexus, collected the Glock and ammunition from the Chase within thirty minutes of its opening and was on the road by 10.30 a.m. He observed every speed limit and road restriction, conscious of the danger of driving with an unlicensed weapon and realized he could not reach DC in time to put the gun in the waiting safe deposit box at the First National. Adjusting his schedule he got off the interstate as quickly as he could after crossing the New Jersey state line, tensed at the significance of the immediate sight of a parked Highway Patrol car. He lunched leisurely at a roadside tavern, disdaining any alcohol. By 5 p.m. he was on the outskirts of DC and stopped at the first Howard Johnson hotel he came to, settling everything in advance for an early departure the following morning. The realtor was still at his office and Mason confirmed the Lexington Park viewing appointment for four the next afternoon.

He bought a plastic carry bag to hold the gun and ammunition and kept it tightly by his side when he ate at the coffee shop and beneath the adjoining pillow when he slept. As he had been the previous day in New York, Mason was on the steps of his second bank in DC when it opened, the tension easing from him as he deposited the gun and ammunition. He bypassed Frederick on his way to Lexington Park, acknowledging that he had a further and very necessary reconnoitre to complete to locate a dumping place for the gun and laptop immediately after killing Slater and Ann.

Mason found the cottage ahead of being shown it by the realtor. It looked ramshackle but Mason drove for more than a mile along every approach road before coming upon another building and that looked deserted. The shoreline, a mixture of foot-dragging shingle and sand, was perfect for the resumption of his neglected fitness regime. When he returned with the realtor for the official inspection Mason found the cottage was better inside than it appeared from outside, well furnished and equipped and altogether fitted for his needs. Mason cut short the room-by-room tour and the effusive rental advantages pitch and said he'd take it for three weeks, with the possibility of extending for longer, unsure how long it would take him to isolate the boy, as an innocent, unsuspecting calf was isolated from its herd by a hunting predator. Mason was ferried back to Lexington to make out separate Adam Peterson cheques for the full rental and inventory deposit and a third, provisionally for $100, against electricity and phone charges, although he had no intention of creating an automatic number-logged telephone account. He did all his grocery and supplies shopping on that one trip and before nightfall was settled into the cottage, everything stored away, a wood fire kindled in the open hearth and all his illegal computer websites visited, with no fresh communications between any of them.

Standing at the window, gazing out over the wind-rippled bay, Mason decided that the only thing missing was a woman. But he needed to concentrate now, he reminded himself, with no time for distractions or interference. He had the first of his several perfect murders to refine and he was looking forward to it. There had, though, to be an interval for Slater and Ann to suffer the loss of the kid. That would be the time to relax by going back, as promised, to California and spend a week – or as long as he chose – fucking Beverley Littlejohn's brains out.

It hadn't been holding back – chickening out – not to have fully planned his first killing. He hadn't known, until his initial surveillance, that there was a kid – destroying whom was going to make the personal redress that much more satisfying – and the California episode
had
been necessary. Now was precisely the right time. It was disappointing that Slater and his whore wouldn't know from the very beginning what was inevitably happening to them, but as far as the official investigation was concerned the kid's death had to appear an accident. Which limited him to something involving a vehicle. Which, limiting again, wasn't guaranteed to kill. What about
not
killing? What about maiming instead, sentencing them to a lifetime of drudgery and care, as he had been sentenced to close to a lifetime of incarceration? If he didn't succeed – if the boy survived but was crippled, for instance – that initially might be sufficient, stretching out their suffering, but eventually the kid had to die, depriving Ann of the child she'd always craved. But he didn't have that much time. It would be more difficult – impossible maybe – to get to the boy a second time and if Slater and Ann died as well, as they were going to die, it really would be impossible for all three to be accepted as accidental. There was also the additional complication that very shortly – almost too shortly – Peter Chambers was going to be released and there couldn't be any delay or distraction between the first killings and separating Chambers from his stashed-away three million dollars before he died, too. Suddenly, although briefly, Mason felt overwhelmed by what he had to do in so little time. But he could do it.
Would
do it. Do it all. And very definitely start tomorrow. That was when Ann's art exhibition opened, he remembered from the discarded advertising flyer.

Slater spent the day at the gallery ahead of the evening's opening reception checking both the existing and new security installations and briefing the hired guards, all of whose references he'd thoroughly confirmed. Ann was as excited as she had been on her return from her first meeting with Andre Worlack in New York, positioning and repositioning the floral displays in the reception area, ensuring the caterers had forgotten nothing and that the wine was being chilled and was ever present at the designer's side during the hanging of each canvas. Her mood only dipped with the arrival of the first New York television crew.

As they began to set up she crossed over to Slater and said, The rest of the media will be arriving soon. It's time you went.'

‘I'd like to stay.'

‘You can't!'

‘I know.'

‘It's good David won't be by himself.'

‘Everything's going to go great.'

‘Thanks, for all you've done.'

‘Call, if anything comes up.'

A local television crew came through the door, looking around enquiringly. As she moved off to greet them Ann said, ‘Nothing will. Please get going.'

Slater hung back until all the crew were inside before leaving, making no farewell gesture to Ann, glad of the build up of cars which initially made it difficult for him to move up Main Street and indicated a popular first night.

David was practising baskets when Slater arrived back in Hill Avenue, stopping for the car to be driven into the garage.

‘You think they'll expect me to drop a few when we go to the campus?' the boy asked, when Slater emerged from the garage. The university and sports facility visit was scheduled for the Wednesday of the next but one week.

‘I doubt it. They know what you can do.'

‘I need to practise some distance shots. I'm too close here.'

‘You got Jeb and a lot of other people to tell you what you need to practise.'

‘I want to be as good as they expect me to be.'

‘You are as good as they expect you to be. That's why they made the offer. Let Jeb and the coach set the schedule. Don't try to anticipate them.'

Slater stayed outside with his son for a further thirty minutes before saying, ‘I'm going to fix dinner. It's meat loaf.'

‘Then going back to the exhibition?' anticipated the boy.

‘No. I'm staying here.'

David again stopped playing. ‘You're not going back to be with Mom?'

‘Sometime whilst it's on, maybe. Tonight's her party.'

‘She'll want you to be there. Expect it,' insisted the boy.

‘She doesn't. We talked about it.'

‘I'll be OK by myself. Maybe hang out with Brad for a while.'

‘It's nothing to do with leaving you. Of course you'll be OK by yourself. And don't you have homework?'

‘Nothing that's going to take long.'

‘Homework first, before you go around to Brad's. We made a deal, remember?'

‘It's an easy set. Half an hour tops. Then I can go over to Brad's?'

‘Let's see how it goes.'

Slater set the table and put the meat loaf in the oven, able to see David sinking baskets on the visitor-checking TV monitor at the side of the porch. That was how he saw David re-open the garage, take out his bicycle and prop it up on its stand. There was only one subject of conversation over dinner, with David doing most of the talking and Slater contributing the odd remark or agreement. At one stage, leaving his plate with half a slice of meat loaf uneaten, David supposed that his training would include a diet that he would have to strictly observe. Slater was amused, although he didn't show it, at his son's intensity and suggested it was something David might ask on their impending visit.