Time to Kill (33 page)

‘What about …? started Ann, indignantly, but stopped.

Jackson shrugged. ‘I don't make the rules, Mrs Slater. I'm a believer in the Amendment that it's the right of every American to bear arms, but there's been too many nuts and now there's terrorism, as well.'

‘Thanks for explaining things,' said Slater, who'd already known the regulations but wanted Ann to hear them separately, from an independent expert, to avoid her suspecting he was inventing obstacles. She'd again remained locked in the house while he'd been in Washington the previous day, only finally opening the door that evening when he'd presented himself in front of the monitoring porchway television. He wasn't totally sure she'd believed his lie that fingerprints found upon the tulips weren't on record and therefore couldn't have been those of Jack Mason. The impossibility of the stems being completely unmarked was the most pressing of all the illogicalities troubling Slater.

‘So let's get down to business!' said the dealer, enthusiastically. ‘You got any idea what you want?'

‘We're relying on your advice,' reminded Slater. His recollection of his KGB firearms training was of a cumbersome Makarov revolver, with a kick virtually impossible to hold down or guarantee any accurate aim, and of being deafened for hours after range practice without ear mufflers.

‘I think I might have something special for you,' offered Jackson. ‘It's a .45 Hechler and Koch LAM – that's laser aiming model – known in the trade as a SOCOM from it being the choice of the US Special Forces Command. It actually beat the Colt company, although it's adapted to use the Cold-manufactured Knight suppresser if you want a noise and flash silencer. It's got a twelve round magazine and is one of the most accurate – if not
the
most accurate – handguns on the market.' The man had been moving among his display cases as he spoke, finishing the pitch at the exact moment of producing the gun. He offered it to Slater and said, ‘How's that feel?'

Certainly far lighter and more manageable than the almost forgotten Makarov, thought Slater, hefting it in his hand. ‘Pretty good.'

‘You done much handgun shooting?'

‘Not much. We're going to join a club, get some practice, obviously.'

‘I got a range out back, where I fire my police records shot. You can pop a few to check it out, before you decide. I'm not trying to press this on to you, I just think it's the best.' The man turned to Ann. ‘But it isn't for you, ma'am. Too heavy. For you I'd recommend a Walther TPH. It's a seven round weapon, .25 calibre, remarkably accurate for up to 100 yards and as light as a feather at three kilograms.' He'd been moving among the display cases again, producing the gun the moment he finished talking.

Ann held it awkwardly, looking down at it as if it were something prehistoric or from outer space. ‘It doesn't look as if it could do much harm.'

‘Let's hope you never have to put it to the test,' said Jackson. ‘But believe me, you learn properly how to use it and you can bring down an attacker before he gets anywhere near you. Which is what you need. Why you're buying it.'

‘It feels OK,' said Ann, uncertainly.

‘Maybe we could both try them on your range?' suggested Slater.

Jackson preceded them, familiarly managing both weapons in one hand and keeping the two boxes of individual ammunition separately in his other. The range was divided into six separate booths, with varying sized targets set out in front that could be adjusted for distance by hand-operated pulleys. Slater thought the bullet-receiving butts at the back were made from a mixture of cork, sand and coiled rope but wasn't sure. Only one booth was already occupied, an assistant behind a testing customer almost completely enclosed in the booth. The attendant saw them and gestured, the movement acknowledged by Jackson, who stopped them going any further. He put what he was carrying on a bench to pick up ear mufflers. He handed one set to Slater and adjusted Ann's for her, before putting on his own and waving to his colleague. Despite the protection and her anticipation of it, the noise from the occupied booth was loud enough to make Ann jump. As they passed Slater saw the target was punctured dead centre. The large, bearded man holding the weapon wore the sort of check shirt and jeans Slater had expected the gunsmith to be dressed in.

When they reached their place, the mufflers dropped around their necks, Jackson nodded behind them and said, ‘One of our best customers. Looking to buy his third Magnum, now his son's of age. Drop a buffalo at fifty yards with a gun like that. Got a kick like a buffalo, too.'

The man ushered Ann into the booth first, making a further adjustment to her ear protection and explained how to line up the fore – and backsights and pointed out the hammer safety catch before loading the Walther. He winched the target towards her to the twenty-five yard mark and positioned her left hand to support her right wrist. Slater saw the target flicker to Ann's shot but couldn't see a hole in it.

Jackson looked between the two of them, smiling. ‘You did say you were going to get some training, didn't you?'

‘Of course,' said Slater.

To Ann the man said, ‘You're going to stand more chance of hitting your target if you keep your eyes open, Mrs Slater. Take another shot, to get the feel.'

This time Ann caught the outer circle. When they wound the target in they saw her first shot had nicked the top right hand corner. Ann said, ‘I like it. This is the one I want.'

Slater fired three try-out shots, at twenty-five yards. Two hit the outer circle, the third the next in towards the bull. The difference between the SOCOM and the remembered Russian regulation Makarov was immense.

Jackson said, ‘Pretty good for someone who hasn't shot a lot.'

Back in the store Jackson produced the suppresser and actually clipped it on, pointing out how it did not interfere with the sighting, but Slater rejected the addition. They made a collection appointment and left with Jackson's promise to get in touch if there were any problems, which he didn't anticipate.

As they drove away Ann said, ‘There's no point in my having it without a carrying licence.'

‘You heard what the regulations are.'

‘For Christ's sake!' exclaimed Ann. ‘The police are running a murder enquiry parallel with their investigation of David's death, which I know was murder too. Doesn't my need to protect myself and for you to protect yourself qualify as public safety:
our
public safety!'

‘Let's get the initial permits first.' She was right, Slater accepted. He couldn't move until the following day's result of his CIA confrontation in Lafayette Park – didn't at that moment know what other moves there were to make – but their being able to carry a gun at all times was one of the most obvious. Another was Ann sufficiently learning how to use the gun to hit whatever she was pointing at.

‘Let's start working on whatever needs to be done now, so we're not looking at another seven or however many more days' delay,' insisted Ann.

‘I'll find out what it is … whatever it is that needs to be done,' emptily promised Slater. ‘I've got to go back to the office. I'm not doing enough there to keep on top of the contracts. You want me to drop you off at the gallery or the house, before we go to the cemetery?'

‘The gallery's closed, you know that. I'm going back to the house until you pick me up.'

‘I'll call to give you an idea when I'll get back there this evening.' Without needing to discuss it Slater drove into the garage, remaining with Ann in the locked car until the automatic door was fully closed behind them, before entering the house ahead of her to check every room and then rerun that day's CCTV loops before resetting every alarm behind him to re-enter the garage and relock the car before reversing out. A traffic accident delayed him getting back to the office by ten minutes. During those extra ten minutes Ann had twice telephoned Mary Ellen to find out where he was.

Jack Mason was on the point of quitting the cemetery where he'd waited for more than two hours, when he saw Ann and Slater approaching along a path towards him; he hurriedly pulled back into the concealment of the privet thicket about twenty yards from the grave. So complete was his surveillance that Mason was sure he knew the elevation they needed to reach in order to fully see David's resting place, nodding in satisfaction when they halted precisely at the spot he'd predicted to establish there were no more unidentified floral tributes. The tulips he'd left the previous day had no longer been there when he'd arrived and he'd examined every refuse bin, some half filled with decaying blooms, in a 100 yard radius without locating them. Had it been such a good idea after all, leaving them as he had? Yes, Mason decided, as Slater and Ann resumed their approach. The flowers amounted to his first taunt – although no one but he and they would know it – and it was simple imagery but very effective to use again if he chose to do so.

They were very close to the grave now, almost upon it, and both were looking around them; Ann was talking to Slater in short, head-jerking burst, to which Slater was responding with head shakes and shrugs. Mason remained crouched and completely hidden behind the thicket, through which he could see every gesture and movement they made. There was a convenient burial place to his left and he was confident that anyone approaching from the opposite direction or from behind would believe it to be that of a loved one he was tidying. Ann was kneeling, as if in prayer, with Slater on one bended knee, a comforting arm around her shoulders. Mason turned, ensuring no one could see him, before extending his arm and outstretched finger through the entwined branches, sighting along an imaginary barrel and very quietly saying,'Pow. Pow,' as he pressed the trigger for two unmissable shots.

That evening Ann and Slater stayed almost forty-five minutes before leaving, each looking intently around as they went back along the most direct path to the car park. Mason straightened, to ease the growing cramp from his legs, in no hurry to follow. It would be so easy, with a rifle: absolutely and totally unmissable. It hadn't been possible to decide upon a method until he'd seen them in the location and established the possibilities, Mason once more reassured himself. But he wished now that he'd given more thought to the alternatives when he'd still been in the penitentiary.

Mason made his way out of the cemetery, turning away from the main entry and exit with its adjoining car park to a pedestrian side gate. At the junction of the two paths he paused for the last time, satisfying himself that neither Ann nor Slater's car remained in the car park. Mason's own was two streets away. As he got into it and set off towards Chesapeake he decided it was time to change to a different colour and model of car.

Back at the fishing cottage Mason at once changed into his running kit and pounded the beach for at least three sand-sucking miles, enjoying the satisfaction of toning himself up again. He showered upon his return and carried a drink with him to his laptop. There was a new email saved on Glynis Needham's computer. It was addressed to Beverley Littlejohn and read: I'LL CALL AGAIN AT YOUR TEN TOMORROW TO EXPLAIN THE MASON SITUATION.

Twenty-Five

J
ack Mason's mind was momentarily blocked, the message frozen before him, two words –
call again
– echoing in his mind like a stuck record. They were telephoning each other! Why? Why the fuck weren't they using email, as they were supposed to do, as he was relying upon them to do for him to read and know what was going on? Why hadn't the bitch told him when he'd telephoned that morning? That's what he was calling her for, for Christ's sake, to make sure he was still safe. Still unsuspected. Never to be suspected. Concentrate! He had to concentrate harder, properly, not fall apart. No reason to panic. It was obvious why Beverley hadn't told him of the contact from her dyke predator. He'd calculated his call to Beverley for 9.30 a.m., which was 12.30 p.m. East Coast time; it was why his day had been knocked off schedule, because of how long she'd kept him with her where-are-you whining. Glynis Needham's email was registered on the screen in front of him at 2.30 p.m., 11.30 a.m. Californian time. He refocused on the two hovering, eroding words:
call again
. So they'd already had one conversation and needed to talk some more.

It had to be about the fucking CCTV outside Ann's gallery on Frederick's Main Street and him being shown up on it. But
what
about it? And why suddenly by telephone, not via email how they normally communicated?

He wasn't thinking fast enough, properly enough! There had to be something in his other electronic trawl nets. Mason hedge-hopped between his other illegally embedded sites, refusing with growing frustration to accept or believe that there wouldn't be some other reference, some exchange that would give him the steer.
There had to be something!
Slowly, thinking smoothly, objectively, Mason moved through every communication in his separate cuckoo's nest logs, even exchanges before he'd been released from White Deer. Once more, nothing.

He could call her again, invent some reason – he didn't need a fucking reason! – for doing so. No he couldn't. All the conveniently available post offices were already closed and the only other telephone was here, at the cottage. And he didn't want to risk registering a phone card call on it.

He had a choice, Mason decided. He could wait until tomorrow – until beyond noon tomorrow, to give the two probation officers the time to talk – or drive right now, tonight, into Washington where Beverley believed him to be, find an hotel and telephone Beverley either at her office or at the apartment to find out what ‘the Mason situation' was. It was eight o'clock, he saw, checking his watch. To compensate for the time difference between east and west he couldn't call Beverley for another nineteen hours – virtually a whole day – if he stayed where he was and rang from Annapolis. Whatever the exchange involved between the two women, it wasn't complete. Was there any point contacting Beverley until they'd talked again? Could he chance calling her tomorrow, even? She was the only person who could lead a CIA or police investigation to him, the only person still to have the slightest idea where he was, which he'd confirm the moment he telephoned the following day.