Time to Kill (38 page)

‘It's your decision,' insisted Denver. It had been fucked up from the beginning, with that asshole Peebles making it easy for Slater to identify him and the recording van in Lafayette Park. ‘We don't get it right soon we're going to have to wrap everything up, anyway.'

‘We do that our asses are even more on the line,' judged Potter, miserably. ‘We're sure as hell between a rock and a hard place.'

More so you than me, thought Denver. As an ex-CIA professional Hodges would testify that he'd argued against it.

Twenty-Eight

J
ack Mason was ready an hour before the realtor's arrival, his cases and laptop packed and in the trunk of the waiting Ford, alongside the re-oiled and now fully loaded Glock. The precaution of collecting up and bagging a lot of the cardboard target debris occurred to him as he sat on the deck, waiting, and as he did so he scattered more widely some of the blown-apart tree stump, which prompted a reflection. The gun had a hell of a kick. And he only had five ten-millimetre bullets left. He had to get closer than five yards. And switch the intended shots, the body first, then the face. Even then it would still be possible to miss. He needed more, another weapon, unable as he had been to buy more ammunition in the Annapolis store. There'd been a selection of hunting knives there, he remembered, as there had been in the sports outlet in Washington where he'd bought the canvas bag. He could easily fit in a shopping call without upsetting his carefully worked out schedule. He had time to spare, in fact, so he wouldn't even have to hurry the choice.

The realtor saw him sitting on the deck and tooted his horn in greeting, striding up with his hand outstretched. ‘As good a trip as last time?'

‘Better,' responded Mason. ‘Didn't get summoned back early.'

They toured the house and went through the inventory and the man produced the telephone account he'd obtained the previous day. He said, ‘Just the short rental. You're not a telephone person, are you?'

‘I came here to get away from telephones.'

‘We going to see you again?'

‘You might well,' lied Mason. ‘I've got your number.'

‘Look forward to hearing from you,' assured the realtor. They drove in convoy along the dirt slip road until they connected with the first black top, where Mason held back from overtaking, letting other cars come between them. By the time he got to the Annapolis turning the realtor had disappeared.

Mindful that he was travelling with a loaded, unlicensed gun Mason kept well within every speed limit and driving restriction, aware of the Highway Patrol vehicle long before it overtook, the driver seemingly oblivious to him. He reached Annapolis by eleven, five minutes earlier than he'd estimated and went directly to the mall in which he remembered from his initial unsuccessful visit the hunting store to be.

Mason at once recognized the sales assistant approaching him as the one who'd demanded a licence when he'd tried to buy the ammunition before, but felt no immediate concern: the unremarkable incident, which hadn't lasted more than a few minutes, had been long enough ago.

And then the man said, ‘Hi there! Remembered your permit this time?'

‘You've got a good memory,' said Mason, his stomach lurching. Rod Redway, he read from the name tag.

‘Never forget a face,' Redway boasted. ‘Kind of a knack.'

He had to keep calm, Mason knew, not try to hurry away. ‘It must be useful.'

‘Certainly is. You come back for ten-millimetre shells?'

‘You even remember that?' said Mason, inwardly in turmoil.

‘It's a heavy calibre, like we talked about then. Don't get asked for them often.'

‘I got them elsewhere,' hurriedly improvised Mason. ‘Guy I know, sometimes go hunting with, he's got a birthday coming up. Likes big game. I'm looking for a skinning knife. You got anything you could show me?'

‘Gotta good selection,' guaranteed the man. ‘You get your other stuff locally?'

‘What?' stalled Mason.

‘Your ammunition. You get it somewhere here in Annapolis?'

Mason shook his head. ‘Alexandria, I think. Can't rightly remember. Passed a gun store by chance and dropped in.' Perspiration was making its way down his back, creating an irritation.

‘Don't know a gun shop in Alexandria. Try to keep up with the competition.'

‘Don't recall its name,' said Mason, in hopeful dismissal. ‘Let's look at some knives, shall we?'

The assistant arranged his display on a green baize with the flourish of a jeweller offering priceless diamonds, going at once into a well rehearsed sales spiel that Mason became anxious to stop. ‘I'm going to need your advice. I don't shoot big stuff with him – certainly don't know anything about butchering.'

‘He a good friend of yours, this guy?'

‘Known him a long time.'

‘Then I guess you'll want the best,' said the man, offering what Mason expected to be the most expensive. It was thick bladed, about twelve inches long, one edge honed, the other serrated. ‘You got the blade to open the skin and peel, the saw to cut through any bone. It's the one I'd recommend.'

‘I'll take it,' accepted Mason. Forcing himself on, he said, ‘I don't suppose there's a presentation case. It's a gift, like I told you.'

‘I could box it, with the sheath.'

‘Would you do that?'

Mason began to relax when the man moved away. It was annoying – he'd been stupid coming back to the same place, a mistake he'd consciously avoided with bars and restaurants and for the last five days even Frederick itself – but that was all it was; by this time tomorrow he'd be far away in New York, beyond recognition by any fucking idiot with a quirky memory. Beyond identification or discovery or arrest, moving on to the next part of a plan so perfect it couldn't be prevented or stopped.

‘Here you go,' announced the returning salesman, the knife boxed and wrapped. He held a ledger as well as a sales slip in his other hand. ‘Why don't I take your name and address, so I can send you information on our new stuff as it comes in? Don't like losing potential customers to other stores.'

Fuck you, thought Mason, finding an immediate rejection in his anger. ‘Give me a card or whatever. I'm between relocations at the moment. When I get a permanent place I'll register. I like the personal service.'

‘Personal service!' seized the man. ‘That's what we give here, personal service, Mr …?'

Mason's mind filled and became overcrowded by names unconnected with his own. ‘Jefferson,' he gabbled, snatching at the first with no obvious link. ‘Josh Jefferson. I'll be in touch very soon.'

‘I'll look forward to that, Mr Jefferson,' said the man. ‘We'll really take good care of you here. Personal service.'

Mason was physically shaking as he emerged back out into the mall, wanting to stop and recover but instead forcing himself on, realizing almost at once that he was walking in the opposite direction from where he'd parked the car but not turning back to pass in front of the store. Easy, he urged himself. Take it easy. Relax. A ridiculous episode. Stupid, as he'd already decided. Wrong to overestimate its importance, though. It had happened, he'd outwardly handled it and now it was finished. It might have seemed like hours but it hadn't been. Less than half an hour, everything he still had to do still well within schedule. Just needed a little time to settle down, get his priorities back in order. He walked out of the mall, leaving the car where it was, and found a bar on a bordering street.

He got a stool at its back corner, keeping his twitching hands out of sight when the barman reached him, and ordered a double Jack Daniels.

‘Time for a pit stop?' greeted the barman, professionally.

‘It's been a difficult day already,' said Mason.

‘You said to call in two or three days,' reminded Slater. ‘It's been two days.'

There was a wheezed intake of breath from the other end of the line. ‘Spoke to our guys at the Hoover building this morning,' said Potter. ‘It seems that these deeper scientific tests take longer than I thought.'

‘So there's still nothing?'

‘Not yet,' said the FBI man. ‘How's Mrs Slater?'

‘A lot better since we got the carrying licence.' That morning Ann had gone into the gallery for the first time, although insisting he follow in his car until she'd parked and actually got into the building. She was going to wait there until he collected her for their afternoon practice at the range, before picking up her own car to follow him to the cemetery.

‘How about you?'

‘I'm OK; said Slater, which was a lie. He was becoming increasingly uncertain, worse even than the unexpected shock of Mason's release. ‘You have anything to do with our getting the licences?'

‘Frederick PD came on to me, sure.'

‘You tell them who I really am?'

‘Of course not.'

‘But you supported our application?'

‘I knew from our meeting how important it was to you … particularly to your wife.'

‘Even though there's no proof that Mason knows where we are?'

‘We've had this conversation, Dimitri.'

‘Daniel! The name's Daniel!'

‘That was a bad mistake. I'm truly sorry.'

‘How come you made it?'

‘Been going through a lot of trial material … things that came out. Guess I got it stuck in my head. You didn't have a new identity then.'

‘How long you going to keep the investigation going?' The answer might give him a steer.

‘We've had this conversation, too. Until we decide there's no need to continue it any longer.'

‘When do you think the results of these new tests will be through?'

‘Maybe another couple of days.'

‘I'll call you then.'

‘You do that,' encouraged Potter. ‘You and your wife still going to the cemetery most evenings?'

‘Every evening.'

‘There hasn't been any more tampering with the grave?'

‘No, thank God.'

‘Grieving is a long process.'

‘I guess it is.'

‘You take care now. Both of you.'

‘We will,' said Slater. He was right! he thought. He
had
to be right!

Mason didn't hurry over the second Jack Daniels and it was gone twelve thirty before he called Patrick Bell from the central post office, his schedule running more than thirty minutes behind now. Still not a problem. The secretary said he'd only just missed the lawyer but the man wasn't due in court that afternoon and should be back by two thirty. Mason said he was moving around and didn't have a cell phone upon which he could be reached. When she suggested he stop by the office to be ahead of Bell's next appointment Mason said that would be difficult as he was in California.

Mason stayed with water at lunch, although he would have liked a drink with the rib eye steak, promising himself a start to the intended celebration later that night in New York. With enough slack still in his timetable and prompted by the thought of New York, he stopped at a travel office on his way back to the post office and as well as confirming the times of the last three shuttles, he confirmed a reservation at the UN Plaza hotel, endorsed for a late arrival although from his meticulous surveillance of the cemetery visits he was sure he could get the seven thirty flight from Reagan airport after the killings.

He called precisely at two thirty and was connected at once. Patrick Bell said, ‘I've been wondering where you were.'

‘You knew I was in California,' said Mason, immediately curious.

‘Had it in my mind that you were coming back east?'

‘I thought about it. Then I changed my mind.'

‘So you're still out there?'

‘I just told you I was.'

‘I must have misunderstood.'

Asshole, thought Mason. ‘Is everything settled?'

‘It hasn't been easy.'

‘You know I'm good for the bill,' said Mason, pushing the weariness into his voice. Except this time he wouldn't be, he thought. Serve the son of a bitch right.

‘I'm not jacking up the fees,' protested the lawyer, indignantly. ‘They tried to renege on their original offer when I offered to withdraw. They only restored it two days ago.'

‘But now it's settled?' He didn't believe the man. It was becoming the second awkward conversation that day.

‘Not quite. There are things for you to sign. That's why I'd hoped you were back here … that you could drop by and wrap everything up.'

‘You'll have to send it. You've got the San Francisco box number.'

‘You're not coming back then?'

‘I just told you I'm not,' said Mason, impatiently.

‘I can't send the settlement cheque without your signed receipt.'

‘Post the acceptance for me to sign ahead of the cheque.' Only three weeks until Peter Chambers' release, Mason calculated. He'd be glad to be free of this shit, his mind cleared to move on to the final plan. It was going to be much easier, the next time.

‘I don't like sending cheques through the post.'

‘What other way is there?' said Mason, frowning.

‘I could courier it to you if you gave me a San Francisco address.'

‘For eight thousand lousy bucks!'

‘You're right,' agreed the lawyer. ‘I'll wait until I get the signed receipt back.' He paused. ‘Guess we won't be seeing each other again.'

‘Thanks for everything.' And kiss my ass, Mason mentally added.

He went uneasily back to his car, still in the mall parking lot. Easily concealed within the boot he unwrapped the hunting knife and took it out of the box, leaving it ready in its sheath, and took out the laptop. He squatted in the back of the car, running it off its battery, and accessed all his Trojan Horses, leaving the penitentiary and Patrick Bell until last. There was nothing new, as there hadn't been when he'd gone through his daily exercise regime that morning, before the realtor's arrival at the cottage.