Time to Kill (27 page)

She shook her head again. ‘He'd gone past. It was his back. His face would have been on it if I'd looked at it earlier, as I should have done.' Ann took a deep gulp. ‘I'm sorry. It's my fault David is dead. All my fault.'

‘Stop it, Ann! It's not your fault. Nothing's your fault.'

‘He'll come after us now. You know that's what he'll do, don't you? I know Jack. I know that's what he'll do.'

He'd have to get Ann psychiatric help, Slater decided. Were psychiatrists bound by the same Hippocratic oath as medical doctors, forbidden by confidentiality against disclosing to whom Ann had been first married and the fact that he was a defecting Russian? He'd have to check. It didn't matter if they weren't. He had to get Ann well.

‘You'll have to kill him, of course,' said Ann, no tone to her voice. ‘Kill him before he kills us. That's what he'll try to do, after what he did to David.' She drank again.

‘Ann, we're going to have to help each other. We're going to go to bed now. I want you to take what the doctor gave you. You have to get some sleep.'

‘You don't believe me, do you!' she accused again. ‘You think I'm mad.'

‘No, darling. I don't think you're mad. We need help, both of us. We've got to learn how to cope.'

Ann came forward on her seat, looking fixedly at him. ‘You've got to believe Jack has found us, stop him doing to us what he did to David. Get a gun. Whatever. Something to protect us.'

‘I will. I'll get a gun tomorrow. Today, rather. I won't let anything happen to you.'

‘Don't patronize me!
Believe
me! I want another drink.'

‘No, Ann. No more drink. We're going to bed now and you're going to take what the doctor gave us.'

‘You locked up? Set the alarms? Checked the CCTV?'

He hadn't done any of it, Slater realized. ‘I'll do it now.'

‘He could have got into the house already. Be hiding somewhere.'

‘He's not in the house, Ann. No one's in the house except you and me. And you're safe. Nothing is going to happen to you, I promise.'

‘I want another drink.'

‘I'll lock up.'

Slater went from room to room, securing the doors where he had to and checking the window bolts. Before setting the individual room alarms he fast forwarded most of that day's CCTV loop, most of which was empty even of passing cars. The only people on the tape were the funeral people who'd collected and returned them, he and Ann, Mary Ellen Foley and Jean. He saw, as he watched, that he'd left his car outside in the drive instead of putting it away in the garage as he had done in the first week or two of learning of Jack Mason's release. To do it now would mean unlocking at least three doors and turning off and resetting as many alarms and Slater decided not to bother. When he got back to the lounge he saw that Ann had made herself another drink.

He said, ‘We're all locked up. And I've checked the CCTV.'

‘I'm not ready yet.'

‘I'm very tired, after today. And I've got a lot to do in the morning, after what you've told me.'

‘I need a gun, too. We both do.'

‘I need to go to bed now if I am going to be able to do everything that I have to do in the morning.'

‘I'll take my drink with me.'

‘All right.'

Ann rose without his having to help her and walked unaided to their bedroom, not needing the handrail to climb the stairs. She took the prescribed tranquillisers without argument, although with the gin she carried, not water.

‘I told you he'd find us, didn't I?' she said.

‘Yes, you told me.'

‘And I was right.'

Slater decided their doctor had to be his first call in the morning. He needed a recommendation to a psychiatrist as soon as possible.

*     *     *

Jack Mason squinted close to his computer screen illustrating the funeral photograph in the
Frederick News-Post
, wishing the definition were clearer and acknowledging that Daniel Slater was good, appearing to have forgotten nothing of his ingrained tradecraft. So cleverly had Slater hunched himself into Ann's shrouding black veil that, had he not already made the identification and known the assumed identity, he would never have recognized the man who'd been his control for three years, after his re-assignment to CIA headquarters from Moscow. It could be a misconception from how Slater had been holding himself to support Ann but the photograph seemed to confirm Mason's impression from his brief sighting outside the gallery that physically Slater was slightly heavier from how he remembered the man from their monthly contact meetings. The hairstyle had definitely been changed, worn shorter and with the parting on the side opposite from how he'd once combed it. Slater had never worn double-breasted suits, either; there'd been a threadbare joke about his not wanting to look like someone from the Soviet
Praesidium
, each of whom always seemed to dress like that. It was impossible to make out Ann's features beneath the veil or to determine how much, if at all, she had physically changed. If she still drank as much as she once had the need would have been for Slater to hold her up from collapsing into a drunken heap rather than because she had been overcome by grief at the boy's burial.

Mason read the accompanying story with as much attention as he had devoted to the photograph. For the first time there was reference to a homicide investigation, although not into the killing of the boy but into the circumstances surrounding the death of the man who had been found close to the burned-out 4×4. The body still hadn't been identified and there was insufficient orthodontic work to canvas dentists, the usual method followed to trace people so badly disfigured by fire. Mason sniggered at the police spokesperson's insistence that the investigation was ongoing, initially deciding that they still weren't making any progress, before balancing the dismissal with the thought that the killing of Ann and Slater – even if it could be manoeuvred into appearing accidental which he increasingly doubted – could instantly escalate the police probe to a federal level. But that was predictable anyway after David's death. An already suspected homicide would actually increase the obvious existing confusion, more to his advantage than endangering him.

His difficulties were far closer to home, Mason decided; or to where he'd chosen to make his very convenient and sexually satisfying home. Now – immediately – was the time to go back and deal with Slater and Ann, when they were still locked into shock and grief and wouldn't be thinking about anything other than the loss of their kid, whose killing had been easy, a presented opportunity he'd grabbed and successfully used. He wasn't likely to get another, Mason realistically accepted. On this occasion he'd have to plan far more carefully, ensuring every precaution; ‘never initiate an operation until establishing a guaranteed escape' echoed in his mind, the universal intelligence mantra. Which took time, potentially a lot of time. Creating an absence that had to be accounted for and accepted by the so far trusting Beverley Littlejohn if she was to be kept as a potential alibi – his best and most guaranteed escape, in fact.

Mason spent the remainder of the day trying to evolve a convincing story, picking at the too obvious flaws that she might isolate, not completely satisfied with his final resolve but unable to improve upon it. Whether he succeeded in convincing her came down to his already self-admired acting ability. Even if he did, his schedule would still be limited and if it wasn't sufficient Beverley and her usefulness would have to be discarded, which she was eventually going to be in any case.

Mason had the apartment immaculate and the drinks prepared as usual for Beverley's return, waiting for her on the balcony while she completed her homecoming ritual; the diaphanous shift that evening a pale yellow silk.

‘So how was your day?' she asked.

‘Decisive,' replied Mason, his script already prepared.

‘You've got an interview!' she anticipated at once.

‘I've been making decisions.'

Beverley sat regarding him seriously. ‘What's that mean?'

‘That I've acknowledged – realized – that I haven't been fair to you.'

Her second pause was longer than the first. ‘What does
that
mean?'

‘You're out on a limb with me. Getting involved like you have, risking everything. And I've been taking advantage of it, moving in like I have, not yet going down the coast to register with other agencies because I don't need the money … not thinking of what you've got to do, making out reports, stuff like that. It isn't right and it isn't fair and—'

‘Stop, darling! Please stop! I've become involved with you because I
want
to become involved. I've told you already that I don't give a damn about any risks and I don't think you're for a moment, in any way, taking advantage of me. I
want
you to be here, living with me. And I know you'll get a job and I think you're being sensible not rushing it, snatching at the first thing that comes along.'

Mason shook his head in apparent refusal. ‘I spoke to Patrick Bell today, too. Told him I didn't want to go on with the compensation claim. I can't risk the publicity, can't risk how it would affect us. I'll take their crap offer, close everything down.'

Beverley smiled, faintly. ‘I'm so glad … about the publicity, I mean. That wouldn't have been a good idea, would it?'

‘I have to go back east,' Mason declared. ‘Bell says he's initiated a lot of legal things that have got to be unravelled now that I'm not going to proceed. The quickest way to do that will be for me to go back because I want everything to be settled quickly, once and for all, so that we can properly settle down – everything quick, sorted out and finalized. That's why I'm building in the trip to Los Angeles and San Diego.'

‘You're losing me along the way here,' protested Beverley. ‘Let's take it a little slower.'

Mason refilled both their glasses. ‘I'll go back east tomorrow. Sort all that needs to be sorted out with Bell – with luck the shitty first offer will just about cover my costs but it doesn't matter if it doesn't. The only thing that matters now is you and I. When I'm done, I'll fly back to Los Angeles or San Diego – whichever is the most convenient but do both to complete all the formalities – and then come back here.'

‘How long's that likely to take?'

Mason shrugged. ‘As long as it takes. And I've got two things to ask you and if you don't like either I'll understand – be very disappointed but I'll understand because I'm an ex-con and you're a law officer according to the definition of your job.'

Beverley sat on the opposite side of the tiny balcony, her drink forgotten on the separating table. ‘What?'

‘You're going to have to cover for me in that first report you've got to submit – exaggerate a little on how hard I'm trying to rehabilitate and settle down.'

‘I've already realized that.'

‘As I said, it's your choice.'

There was a brief, hovering silence.

Mason said, ‘So what is it?'

‘You know damned well what it is.'

Mason smiled. ‘You've no idea how much I'd hoped that's what you'd say. And something else that's just occurred to me. We've got to keep Glynis out of this. We both know how much she wants to get into your pants. You any idea how she'd react, if she found out – suspected even – what was going on between us!'

‘I'm not going to talk to Glynis about anything,' insisted Beverley. ‘You said there was something else?'

‘There is. Will you marry me?' That hadn't been rehearsed but he decided it was brilliant and that he had the most guaranteed escape alibi he could possibly have.

Twenty-One

W
hen he didn't produce the demanded handgun but instead, as gently as he could, suggested they see a specialist doctor, Slater expected the indignant outbursts – near hysteria even – with which Ann had greeted his doubt that she'd seen Mason on the gallery CCTV.

Instead, quite composed and without any resentment, she said, ‘A psychiatrist, you mean?'

‘Yes,' said Slater. There was nothing to gain from trying to avoid or sweeten what he was attempting to do to make her well again; he was obviously going to be as supportive and loving as was possible but Ann would despise him if he lied. Her very calmness had to confirm that he was right, that Ann was suffering from delusion and possibly a nervous breakdown. She'd been more agitated earlier, telephoning Jean to keep the gallery closed and telling him she was going to set all the house alarms and locks the moment he left and not answer the telephone or open the doors until she saw from the porch TV it was him at the door, even after he'd put the car in the garage. She made him immobilize the entry into the house from the garage, declaring it susceptible to electronic interference.

‘So you think I'm mad; that I'm making it all up?'

‘I think we need help.' Slater fell back upon already established reasoning. ‘Both of us.' Another surprise was that she was very evidently stone-cold sober. He'd risked one scotch and water after leaving the office, from which he'd had his conversation with their family doctor, Herbert Mills.

‘I knew this was what you'd want. I want it, too. I want it because you've got to believe me, as quickly as possible. So that we can do what we've got to do to take care of ourselves. And you won't do that, believe me, and start protecting us until you know I am not mentally ill. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' said Slater, uneasily. ‘I spoke to Dr Mills. He's given me a name of someone who's very good.'

‘Do we tell him everything?'

‘Psychiatrists are bound by the same oath of confidentiality as doctors of medicine. I checked that with Dr Mills, too.'