‘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 dri
ven 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.
‘I meant what I said,’ announced David, suddenly. ‘I won’t lay back on my school work. I’ll go on getting straight As, I promise.’
‘I know you will,’ said Slater. ‘We never got around to that camping trip, did we?’
‘A lot came up.’
‘Maybe we can fit it in when things settle down.’
‘Don’t you think it would be an idea to surprise Mom at the exhibition?’ David suggested.
‘No,’ said Slater, positively. ‘I think it would be a good idea to do the work you brought home, go over to Brad’s to hang out for an hour and then be back in time to hear all about what’s happened at the gallery from Mom when she gets back.’
‘She going to be there all the time this week? Nights as well as days?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Why don’t we both surprise her one night, go over together?’
‘That’s what we’ll do,’ agreed Slater. ‘One night towards the end of the show.’ When all the media had finally gone, he thought.
‘I won’t be late back,’ said David.
‘Ride carefully.’
‘I always do.’
Mason had wondered how he would feel at his first sight of Daniel Slater, whom he still instinctively thought of as Dimitri Sobell, but he hadn’t expected it to be like this, sick to his stomach, so bad in the first few minutes that he’d actually, physically, retched. He still felt sick at the missed opportunities, taking a long time to calm down and rationalize that there was no way he could have prepared as carefully as it was essential to prepare, not snatching at the first unexpected possibility.
He’d set off that day with little positive intention beyond timing the drive from Chesapeake to Frederick. It was only when he got to the town that he decided to watch the gallery, sure of his concealment in a car park just off Main Street. He’d watched for quite a long time, seeing the arrival of the television vans, suddenly jerking forward when he identified the man he hated enough to kill. Mason fought against his need to vomit, swallowing and coughing against throwing up, forcing the control into himself.
The feeling went beyond being physical. Mason would have recognized Sobell of course: had recognized him, at once. But the Russian had changed. Got bigger, fatter: more American. The hair was much thinner and the whole ambience was relaxed, laid back, none of the quick-moving jerkiness of their remembered encounters. Mason wasn’t immediately aware of starting the hire car, only realizing he was moving when he began edging the car out on to a surprisingly busy Main Street. The delay was sufficient to get two cars between him and Slater and he should have obviously turned off as soon as he could, at the next intersection, but he didn’t. Using the traffic build-up for further protection and managing to stay amongst it all the way back to Hill Avenue, he was able to stop with Slater’s house in view and see the boy at the basketball hoop. He stayed there watching the kid practise in front of his father and continue on when Slater went inside the house. Mason finally turned into the avenue and was actually passing the house when the boy came out of the garage with a bicycle, which he put up on its rest. Sure of his geography, Mason looped back in a square, returning close to where he’d first stopped, looking at the waiting bicycle. It was more than an hour, completely dark, before the boy re-emerged, got on the bicycle and passed within a yard of where Mason sat, unseen.
When would there be such another easy chance? wondered Mason, as he picked up the road back to Chesapeake. Whenever it came he’d be well and truly ready.
Sixteen
Ann had worked as hard as she knew how to make the exhibition a success and Slater had done everything he could think of to support her and make it happen, but neither of them imagined in their wildest dreams that it would turn out quite as it did.
The New York Times and the Washington Post both carried stories beyond their arts sections, each declaring the exhibition the best ever of Andre Worlack’s unique work. Each carried photographs of Ann with the artist. So did every television station, as well as separate interviews with Ann, which brought more television coverage. NBC were filming when a New York based, Emmy-nominated star of a TV rate-topping soap made an unannounced visit on the second day and spent $50,000 on one miniature canvas and the publicity from that sale prompted a procession of People-featured celebrities. CBS vacillated before deciding to film the following week, on condition that Worlack would be there. In several interviews Worlack described Ann’s gallery as the most important provincial venue he had encountered and announced it would be the location of his next try-out exhibition. The Frederick News-Post carried daily stories concluding with an editorial asserting that Ann Slater had put the town on the national arts culture map.
And Ann’s concern at the publicity potentially identifying them grew to encompass Slater, as well as herself. On the first full day after the opening reception, Ann called the exhibition a terrible mistake she should never have contemplated and positively refused three approaches, one from a local television station, for personalized features about her and her family. The University of Maryland confirmed their approach to David, obviously leaked by the school, which brought fresh approaches from the local media, but they still refused to do any personality profiles; they were now being referred to as ‘the golden family’. Jeb Stout was quoted that David was going to be a major sports star of the future. The photograph of David was a bad one, making him look ungainly.
The day that the golden family description was first used Ann said, ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Front it out,’ said Slater. He wished it hadn’t happened – the first advice given them upon going into the Witness Protection Programme ha
d been never, ever, to attract attention to themselves – but they couldn’t reverse it now.
‘I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. It’s a nightmare,’ apologized Ann.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ refused Slater. ‘And it’s not a nightmare. It’s your success story.’ Which it was and should have infused her with the confidence she’d never had, not further despair.
‘I won’t agree to other exhibitions, of course.’
‘There’s no reason to refuse anything. It won’t be like this next time. The next time we’ll know what to expect, if they turn out like this one has. Know how to handle it.’
‘I’m frightened, Dan.’
‘The personality stuff is local and it’s about you and David. I haven’t been photographed or identified, called nothing more than a businessman. The week after next it’ll all be forgotten.’ He wouldn’t go as far as admitting to being frightened, Slater decided, but he was definitely uncomfortable. But it had to be kept in perspective. It was unthinkable that he would be remembered after fifteen years; more than fifteen years if he included the trial and he hadn’t been photographed giving evidence there, either. The photograph of him that had been used had been blurred and out of focus, from a Russian embassy reception.
‘I’d like to believe it but I don’t,’ refuted Ann. ‘I had two more exhibition approaches today, after what Andre said about the importance of the gallery. I wasn’t even going to bother to tell you because I’m going to turn them both down.’
‘Don’t!’ urged Slater. ‘This is what you want to do. What you wanted the gallery to be recognized as. And it’s worked.’
‘It’s not what I want to do, not put everything we have at risk!’
‘We’ll just ride it out,’ persisted Slater. ‘No harm’s been done.’
‘You don’t know that! You won’t know that until it’s too late!’
‘The Cold War’s over. Has been for years. Everything’s changed.’
‘Jack’s out, that’s what’s changed!’
Time to Kill Page 16
