‘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.
For several moments he remained hunched where he was, after closing the machine down, going through the conversation with the lawyer in his mind. And then he smiled. Of course the exchanges between the lawyer and the state authorities wouldn’t have been by email. There were documents that needed to be signed so it would have been by ordinary letter mail. He was still unsettled by the nonsense in the hunting store that morning.
Mason returned the laptop to the trunk but again sat for several moments at the wheel, breathing deeply, preparing himself.
Showtime, he thought.
Twenty-Nine
Jack Mason began ticking off his mentally prepared list as soon as he left Annapolis. The car was first. He stopped at a designated gas station, not only filling the car for the escape drive to DC and the New York shuttle, but to check the oil, water and air, determined against any unforeseen setbacks. In the gas station shop he bought the necessary pack of latex gloves and, as an afterthought, two bunches of tulips He approached Frederick with sufficient time to spare to make the detour to the creek in which he intended to dump the Glock and the laptop and turned off the main highway at the same spot as before. He drove slowly over the echoing bridge, satisfying himself the banks were deserted, and stopped in the same lay-by as before on the opposite side. He was actually on the bridge, crossing to where the path sloped down to the bank before he saw the man and boy, presumably father and son, fishing together. The boy looked up and gestured. With no alternative, Mason waved back. The weak sun in their eyes would make it difficult for them to see him clearly.
‘Caught anything?’ Mason called down.
‘Couple of trout,’ said the boy. ‘Not very big.’
If he hadn’t made the detour he might have come upon them with the Glock, empty, openly in his hand, ready to throw into the river, Mason thought. ‘One of your favourite spots?’
‘Pretty much,’ said the man, squinting up.
‘We usually get more,’ said the boy.
‘I promised you six and that’s what we’ll get,’ said the man, not talking to Mason.
‘Best of luck,’ said Mason, turning away.
He’d lost his hiding place, Mason accepted, putting the Ford into a u-turn to recross the bridge, sounding his horn in farewell as he did so, to rejoin the Frederick road. The danger wasn’t from recognition but from being stuck with the incriminating Glock after the killings. What about the deserted area by the canoe club from which he’d thrown the first laptop into the Potomac beneath the Key Bridge? It would involve a time-consuming route change to Reagan airport and … no it wouldn’t, Mason stopped himself, turning on to the blacktop. He’d be on the right side of the city, descending from the Beltway. He could simply continue on into Alexandria and discard the gun in the Potomac from one of the convenient roads leading down to the river there. He could easily carry the laptop up to New York to dispose of it there.
As he drove into Frederick Mason saw from the dashboard clock that he was still conveniently ahead of the cemetery ritual, which gave him more than sufficient time to take more precautions. He chose the house first, taking the familiar turn. Hill Street SE was, as always, pristinely empty, unsullied by any tree or hedge litter, unmarked by a single discarded toy or child’s bicycle or play cart. The Slater’s driveway was empty, the garage doors shut. For the first time Mason allowed himself a direct look as he passed, seeing immediately that the basketball hoop had been dismantled. Well before he reached it, Mason knew Ann’s gallery was open: two women, one carrying a picture-shaped package, emerged as he went by. This time he didn’t turn his head to look, apprehensive of the CCTV. He did try to locate Ann’s recognizable car in the adjoining parking space but couldn’t.
Mason approached the now familiar cemetery by the circuitous route that would position the car in the direction he needed to drive directly to the Beltway link road, slowing as he went by the church at the front. There were more cars than he expected, making it difficult to be absolutely sure, but Mason didn’t isolate the memorized licence plates of either Slater or Ann’s car in the carefully avoided parking area. Mason left his car in the chosen road separated by two streets from the cemetery. He painstakingly fitted each finger into its designated stall of the latex gloves, which he’d left lying on the passenger seat beside him, before intertwining his hands to ensure they were perfectly snug, shrugging the sleeves of his jacket down to test that they were totally concealed. Satisfied, Mason reached beneath the passenger seat to retrieve the Glock and the serrated hunting knife and wiped every surface of the gun, the trigger particularly, with what remained of the unused cleaning rag. After that he did the same with the knife. Even though he had only touched their outer plastic wrapping, which he now removed, Mason also wiped every stem of the two bunches of tulips, very aware that there was not the slightest shake in his hands as he worked. He felt completely calm, too, although very eager. He wedged the gun into the front waistband of his trousers, to the left. He put the knife, unsheathed, into the left inside pocket of his jacket and got awkwardly out of the car so that the door and its window would hide the Glock until he could button his jacket over it. There was a discernible bulge but it was completely covered when he positioned the flowers in front of him. The flowers also hid the gloves.
‘Ready,’ he said, aloud, turning back towards the cemetery.
Now that she had a carrying licence Ann was insisting on practising twice a day at the gun club range. Her slot that afternoon was later than usual so the arrangement was for Slater to pick her up from there and then for them to continue on to the cemetery in his car and collect hers on the way back. He drove badly and knew it, too tensed to everything around him, his speed fluctuating sometimes so widely to bring protesting horn blasts from other cars, which heightened his tension.
He had to bring things to a head, Slater determined, resentment adding to all the other conflicting emotions, anger the most predominant. The risk of failure – which inevitably meant disaster – was appalling and couldn’t go on any longer, no matter whatever threats or denials there would be. Despite his earlier conviction to the contrary, Sl
ater was increasingly coming to believe that the turmoil of relocation – of their having to adopt new identities and start new lives again – was their only escape. He knew Ann would be reluctant to the point of outright refusal to any suggestion of their no longer being near to David’s grave. He’d call Potter or Denver or both tomorrow. Openly challenge them – how much he wished he could threaten legal action! – and demand the official help he would need. The hovering uncertainty hardened in his mind. What if they refused, now that he was no longer of any use or value to them? But they did need him, he tried to reassure himself. He might not be any longer professionally important to them, but their precious Witness Protection Programme was. And it provided him with his necessary pressure point, one he’d impose as hard as he could when he spoke to Potter tomorrow.
He had to wait for Ann to come off the range and when she did she said, ‘I took an extra fifteen minutes. The person after me was late.’
Slater kept protectively behind her as they emerged into the parking lot, not looking at her but all around, releasing the automatic lock to avoid any delay in her getting in when they reached the car. ‘How’d you do?’
‘Two bulls at twenty-five yards, one at thirty. Almost all of the rest in the next ring.’
‘That’s pretty good,’ he said, as they gained the cemetery road.
‘That’s pretty damned good,’ she corrected. ‘John says I’m one of the best he’s ever trained.’ John Bristol was their permanent instructor.
‘What’s wrong with your wrist?’
‘Nothing!’
‘You’ve been holding it – nursing it – ever since you got into the car.’
Ann took her left hand away from her right wrist. ‘I told you nothing was wrong with it.’
‘You’ve done too much. It won’t be bulls tomorrow.’
‘We’ll see. Why are you driving so slowly?’ she fought back.
‘I wasn’t aware that I was.’
‘You are! We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.’
‘We’ll be there at the same time as we always are,’ insisted Slater, increasing his speed. ‘We don’t have a time schedule.’
Time to Kill Page 30
