Time to Kill (36 page)

Slater actually, very positively, hoped Ann was right. It would throw their lives into utter turmoil – turmoil neither of them could begin to imagine – and could conceivably result in the destruction of both their businesses and their having to relocate to some other part of the country; some other part of the world even. But at least they'd
know
! The ghost-generating limbo in which they were suspended now
was
wrecking anything there was between them as effectively as any physical harm Jack Mason might have contemplated or tried against them. Slater couldn't remember – this fact the very proof in itself how bad things had become – the last time he and Ann had made love or even felt or shown any affection whatsoever towards each other. He was sure Ann couldn't have remembered, either.

‘Let's wait until we hear what they have to say.'

That afternoon Slater didn't reconnoitre the house as he had before, although he had to drive around two connecting streets before he found a parking space. It was almost over a hundred yards from the house and Ann clung to his arm as they walked, her head hunched. As before, Denver opened the door at the first summons. Potter was respectfully on his feet when Ann entered the room with its view of the park, additional cups for either the offered coffee or afternoon tea, neither of which Slater nor Ann accepted. There was an additional chair for Ann, too, and as she took it she said, ‘It's him, isn't it? Jack? You've established that he handled the flowers.'

‘No, we haven't, Mrs Slater,' said Potter, settling gratefully back into his inadequate chair. He was short-breathed by the effort of standing.

The denial silenced the already convinced Ann. Slater's reaction was mixed, the predominant – although there was a mix in that, too – one of relief after all. He said, ‘What
was
found?'

‘It was inconclusive,' qualified Denver, sparring his colleague. ‘There were marks, under high definition spectro-analysis, but they weren't definable as prints.'

‘What were they then?' said Ann.

‘Smudges.'

‘Fingerprints that had been wiped,' she said.

‘Or imposed by someone wearing gloves … like a mourner who might wear gloves taking a belated tribute to a grave and getting confused which grave it was,' said Denver.

‘It's identified by David's name on the temporary marker,' refuted Ann. ‘You go to the trouble of laying a tribute, you go to the trouble of finding the right grave.'

‘What's your judgement?' interceded Slater, wanting to move on from the predictable exchange, judgements of his own to make. Or try to make.

‘The only one we can reach,' said Potter. ‘The scientific examination was inconclusive and hasn't taken us one step closer at this stage.'

‘So what happens now, to your involvement and Frederick PD's investigation?'

‘We don't know about Frederick; we're not working with them,' said Potter. ‘There's still some more scientific tests for our guys to make.'

‘More?' queried Slater.

‘I told you the Bureau have state-of-the-art facilities at the Hoover building.'

‘Why are we here, if you've found nothing but there's still more scientific tests to be carried out?' questioned Slater, with rising uncertainty.

Potter made another difficult, wheezing stretch to pour himself more coffee. ‘We made an arrangement. I thought you'd want to know how we were getting on.'

Before Slater could speak Ann said, ‘What about giving us protection?'

‘What?' said Denver, frowning.

‘Protection,' repeated Ann. ‘We wouldn't be here, talking like this, if either or both of you didn't think there was a genuine reason. You want to keep your protection arrangements alive, why not ensure that we're kept alive?'

Slater decided against saying what he'd intended.

Potter said: ‘We're a long way from believing you're in any physical danger, Mrs Slater.'

‘When Daniel came to you a long time ago we were given total protection. Daniel was kept on an army base, for Christ's sake!' Ann said. ‘And then Jack was already under arrest and in jail! He's not in jail any more. He's out there, watching. Waiting.'

‘Then we weren't protecting you and your now husband from Jack,' said Denver. ‘We were protecting you from KGB retribution.'

‘Daniel maybe,' argued Ann. ‘Not me.'

‘Very much you, Mrs Slater,' said Denver, uncomfortably. ‘I'm afraid you're not making this conversation easy, but Daniel came to us
because
of you. And his continued cooperation with us then depended entirely upon your safety.'

‘And now it doesn't!' she demanded.

‘No, it doesn't,' agreed Denver, honestly. ‘But the CIA and the FBI are listening to what you and your husband are telling us and FBI facilities are being used to check out what we're being told as far and as well as is possible …' The man paused. ‘Please understand that I am not trying to be rude or critical, Mrs Slater. But we wouldn't be here today, talking like this, if you hadn't, for reasons we still find inexplicable, destroyed the CCTV tape upon which you insist your ex-husband was shown.'

Ann jerked her head towards Slater. ‘You think I imagined it, like he does.'

‘We wish we'd had the opportunity to see it, as I'm sure your husband does,' said Potter.

‘We're grateful, both of us, for what – and how much – you're already doing,' hurriedly intervened Slater. ‘And thank you.'

‘Give me another call, in two or three days' time, to see where we are,' suggested Potter. ‘If anything comes up in between, I'll call you.'

‘I'll do that,' promised Slater.

‘That was a complete and utter waste of time,' complained Ann, on their way back to Frederick. They were going direct to the cemetery.

‘I'd hoped you'd be reassured at meeting them, knowing they were involved.'

‘You told me they were involved. I would have been reassured if I believed they were actually doing something. And that they'd agreed to the protection I asked for.'

Slater was a long way from being reassured by the meeting, too.

Although it had all turned out OK, Mason acknowledged that he had been unnerved by the renewed contact between the two probation officers, which was why he hadn't gone anywhere near Frederick for the past three days. Now, thinking it through as he jogged along the sand strip and after that sat, drink in hand, on the outside deck of the cottage overlooking the bay, he faced further reality. As much as he wished he could have taunted them further, for them to know he had trapped them, it had been part of his fantasy. Just as he'd fantasized about killing Ann and Slater with some exotic reptile, particularly a rattlesnake as in the Capote book he'd liked so much when he'd been the penitentiary librarian, or with one of the Internet formula bombs. It was, mundanely, going to have to be with the untraceable Glock. Restricted as he was by the number of rounds available, he'd have to get very close to them to ensure they both died, close enough for him to be the last person they saw. He'd wanted more, so much more. But he had to be practical. That would have to do. Determined upon reality he accepted that Beverley might do something stupid before he could make the hit. And he needed to speak just once more to Patrick Bell; he didn't have any practical reason for doing this except to time it within hours of the two deaths, to establish that he was supposedly in California and therefore couldn't possibly be responsible, even though Jack Mason no longer officially existed. And then he had to move on to Peter Chambers. That killing was going to be a lot easier, once he'd manoeuvred access to the hidden millions.

The killing of Ann and Slater had to take place at the cemetery, where they were most obviously and easily vulnerable. There was nothing more to add to what he'd discovered from his surveillance there. He knew how sparsely populated the cemetery was during their regular pilgrimages, that they always knelt and prayed with their backs to the thick privet from which he could get to them unseen, unable to miss. Head shots, facial shots, but not until after they'd seen him, recognized him. He was discarding all the fantasies, all the daydreams but they had to know it was him – that he'd won, not them – before they died. Maybe there could be a final humiliation. Holding them, literally on their knees, at the point of a gun, he'd make both of them say sorry. And then plead. Mason knew they'd do it. Kill me, for what I did to you, but spare her. Kill me, for what I did to you, but spare him. That would be enough, letting them think they had a chance – an escape – before blasting their faces off. That's how he'd do it! He only had eight bullets in the magazine. Enough. One each in the face, after they'd begged and pleaded, one left for each, to make sure. Leaving both of them symbolically lying – dead – on the grave of their son. More than good enough. Stupid to have fantasized for as long as he had. The timing was perfect. Just three weeks before the always-trembling, always-apologizing Peter Chambers was due to walk – shuffle, as he always hesitatingly shuffled, never walking like a man – into their rendezvous hotel.

Mason hoped it wouldn't take too long to get access to the three million dollars. So far it hadn't gone as smoothly as he'd expected it to go. He was anxious to finish everything and get out of the fucking country forever. Tomorrow he'd get the Glock out of the safe deposit box. And make all the other necessary arrangements.

‘It was definitely Jack Mason's wife,' confirmed Burt Hodges, who'd debriefed Ann as well as Slater, comparing the stories of each. ‘But then we knew it was from the newspaper photographs. I was disappointed this time that Dimitri – I'm sorry, I still automatically think of him by his Russian name – seemed to have lost more of his edge than last time.'

‘You think so?' queried Denver.

‘Didn't you?'

‘I didn't handle him during the defection,' reminded Denver.

‘Which makes it even more difficult for us,' said Potter, adding to his glass. They were drinking Wild Turkey again.

‘You should do what she asked, take her into protective custody,' said the retired CIA man.

‘To achieve what?' demanded Potter.

‘You know what I mean,' protested Hodges.

‘She certainly didn't strike me as being mentally unbalanced,' said Denver.

‘Because she isn't,' said Potter. ‘Just shit scared.'

‘Easy to be,' said Hodges.

‘Don't tell me about it,' said Potter.

‘I hope I don't have to,' said Hodges. ‘This is the sort of situation that makes me glad I'm retired.'

‘This is the sort of situation that makes me wish I was,' said Potter.

‘You might well be, soon,' said Denver. ‘We both might be.'

‘You sure the tape's off!' suddenly demanded Potter.

‘Of course I'm sure,' said Denver.

Twenty-Seven

T
hey went directly from collecting their handguns and permits to the gun club.

Ann shot first, at twenty-five yards on a points system and scored thirty-five out of a possible one hundred. Slater achieved fifty-five. Ann wanted to extend their allotted time but the instructor said that was inadvisable on her initial session: she was unaccustomed to the straight-armed stance and despite the apparent lightness of the weapon, she'd be tired. He didn't want her confidence affected by a lower score.

‘Let's build up, gradually.'

‘Let's,' agreed Ann. ‘I want a lesson each day. Next week we'll build it up to one in the morning and one in the afternoon.'

‘You're going to get very good,' predicted the instructor.

‘I intend to be better than very good,' promised Ann.

‘You go on using your own weapon, you're going to need a carrying licence.'

‘We're getting them,' said Ann.

On their way back to the house Ann said, ‘We are, aren't we? You've applied or done whatever you have to do?'

‘I said we'd take it a step at the time,' reminded Slater.

‘I want to carry it
all
the time! You know that!'

‘I'll sort it out.'

‘Right away,' she insisted.

‘I'm not sure I can spare the time for two sessions a day.'

‘You don't seem to need the practice I do. Were you trained, before?'

‘When I was in Russia.' They'd never talked about the KGB or anything he'd done during any of his postings. When he'd mentioned it after they'd entered the programme and settled in Frederick, she'd told him she didn't want to know anything about it or what Mason had done beyond what she'd read in the newspapers or heard on television during the trial. She'd stopped doing that before he was sentenced. Until Peebles' letter it had been years since they'd even spoken of Mason.

‘When we get the licences I'll start going back to the gallery,' Ann announced.

‘I'd hoped you would. I'm going to have to go back to San Jose soon.'

‘What?'
she demanded, the alarm immediate.

‘They're offering more work.'

‘Turn it down!'

‘I've already turned some stuff down. I can't go on saying no. I thought you could come with me.'

‘I don't know.'

‘What's to decide? Jean's running the gallery. It would do you good to take a trip. We could go on somewhere, make a vacation out of it.'

‘I don't know,' she repeated. ‘We haven't sorted out the headstone yet. And I like going there as we're doing.'

‘Ann, we can't go on visiting every night for the rest of our lives. Any more than you can stay locked up in the house.'

‘I told you I'm going back to the gallery!'

‘If you get a carrying licence.'

‘We'll …' started Ann but stopped, fear mewing from her. She was scrabbling into her handbag, talking at the same time. ‘There's a car in the driveway! What …? Who …? What?'