Time to Kill
Page 17
‘And he can’t find us.’
‘You don’t know that, either!’ She should have told him about the man so much like Jack on the CCTV!
‘I do know!’
‘What you don’t …’ Ann began, stopping in time.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He’d think she was paranoid or hysterical if she announced it this late; making it up to support her argument.
Slater looked at her curiously across the breakfast table. ‘You were going to say something?’
‘It’s not important … doesn’t mean anything.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure. Like I’m sure it was a mistake to get into the whole damned thing in the first place.’
‘It’s too late to do anything about it now. And I don’t want you turning down other things, either.’
Ann looked into her coffee cup, saying nothing.
‘You sorry you took the chance?’
‘What?’
‘Took the chance of marrying me?’ elaborated Slater.
Yes, thought Ann, and at once wished she hadn’t, because it wasn’t true. She was sorry she’d staged the exhibition, although deep down – unaware of Slater’s thinking – she’d seen it as something to establish herself, prove herself capable of doing after being told for so long and so violently by Jack that she wasn’t capable of anything. But she didn’t regret committing herself to being with Daniel Slater. ‘No, darling. I’m not sorry now and haven’t been since the moment I said yes.’ Why had she thought, even for a second, the opposite?
‘You going to go back to the others who approached you?’ asked Slater.
‘We’ll see.’
‘What’s to see?’
‘This one has got a long way to go yet. Let’s continue on taking it a step at a time.’
The following day the insurance assessor called Slater and asked to meet him on-site in Washington DC with another client staging a jewellery exhibition. The only day available was the following Wednesday.
By the third day of the exhibition Jack Mason had established a regular commute, which was to confirm David’s routine as much as he could. He knew precisely the time the boy left for the school bus pick-up, not going directly to the stop but calling first at a house two streets away to collect a friend, an overweight, fair-haired boy Mason guessed to be in David’s class. He’d learned the name of Slater’s son was David, and of the sports scholarship, from the local newspaper profile, and discovered from the reporting of other media coverage of the exhibition’s national success. For David there seemed to be no positive homecoming pattern; sometimes he went directly to Hill Avenue to practise baskets, as he had the first time Mason had followed him, but on other afternoons he stopped at the home of his fair-haired friend, although never staying longer than fifteen minutes. On the days David came directly home from the school-drop he bicycled back to his friend’s house, although on one occasion the overweight boy rode to Hill Avenue. On the Wednesday of the first week David didn’t come home on the school bus but arrived in Slater’s blue Honda two hours later than normal carrying a sports bag, from which Mason assumed he’d stayed on, presumably at school, for after-hours training.
Mason’s mind blocked when he searched for a method more likely to succeed in killing David than an apparent traffic accident. Mason recognized that his only chance would be on one of David’s evening bicycle trips to the friend’s house. But these were unpredictable, almost invariably in daylight – barely dusk at the very best – covered a distance of just two streets of mostly occupied houses and allowed him virtually no time to prepare, once he realized that the boy was on the move.
Compounding all these problems was the obvious need for the intended crash vehicle to be stolen, exposing him to detection and arrest throughout the time he was at the wheel until he could dispose of it. On the first evening of his resumed surveillance, before establishing as much as he finally did of David’s movements, Mason began his search for a potential vehicle, starting almost casually in the shopping precinct car park from which he waited for the arrival of the homecoming school bus. There was an obvious familiarity in the way the battered, mud-splattered green Cherokee 4x4 was driven into the lot and headed for an expected space by a far wall. The driver, a young Latino, emerged with a briefcase and a rolled up newspaper, locked the off-road car and went out through the car park exit, not going in to any of the store rear entrances. Mason guessed that a second vehicle, a Volkswagen whose driver left the same way, was another regular overnight parker. When the bus arrived, Mason followed the boy as he had on the first occasion and watched from his established vantage point for more than an hour. Both cars remained where they had been left when he drove by, on his way back to Chesapeake. The following evening both were parked again, in precisely the same places, fifteen minutes before the arrival of the bus, and were there when he checked on his way back to the cottage.
Mason maintained the protection of switching identifiable cars, choosing a Hertz outlet in Annapolis and staying in the town long enough to locate a hardware store to buy a two inch length of hollow piping and some latex gloves at a supermarket before continuing on to Frederick. That was the day he read in the Frederick News-Post of David’s scholarship. The Cherokee and the Beetle arrived with clockwork timing that afternoon and were still in their regular slots when he passed on his way back to the cottage. He decided he didn’t need to look elsewhere. When he made his regular computer checks that night Mason discovered the Pennsylvania State prison authority’s reply to Patrick Bell’s exploratory letter and realized the following day was going to be very busy, although he had no way then of knowing just how busy.
‘It was the assessor,’ identified Slater, returning to the dinner table. ‘Tomorrow’s meeting is postponed until five.’
‘What about picking David up from practice?’ demanded Ann, at once. It was the first night she’d got back in time to eat with them since the exhibition opened.
‘I can probably get back in time,’ said Slater.
‘Why don’t I ride to school tomorrow?’ asked the boy. ‘I’ve done it before.’
‘You’ve got too much stuff to carry,’ refused Ann. ‘I’ll get away from the gallery early again.’
‘Worlack agreed to the CBS interview here tomorrow night so that the gallery will be featured,’ reminded Slater. Because of the continuing publicity he hadn’t yet risked the planned surprise visit with David.
‘They don’t need me there.’
‘Of course you’ve got to be there,’ insisted Slater. ‘I told you, I’ll get back in time.’
‘I really don’t see what the problem is,’ protested David. ‘Practice is geared around schoolwork, because it’s arranged that way. So I don’t have that much to take with me tomorrow. I can easily get my gear into my backpack.’
‘It’ll be dark coming home,’ objected Ann.
‘Not properly,’ argued David. ‘And I’ve got lights. How come I could do it before but not now?’
‘I don’t like you riding around at night,’ said Ann, inadequately.
‘I don’t see it as a problem,’ said Slater.
‘You don’t!’ challenged Ann, looking directly across the dinner table at him as she had at their earlier breakfast dispute.
‘No, I don’t!’ echoed Slater, facing her just as determinedly. He was totally aware of Ann’s fear – just as he was totally aware she would never be able to lose it – but if it went unchecked or unopposed it would grow and become worse.
‘What’s the matter? I don’t understand!’ protested the boy, looking anxiously between his parents.
‘Nothing’s the matter!’ said Slater, just as urgently, remembering the nonsense of David imagining he and Ann might be breaking up. ‘As you said the other night, there’s a lot happening … a lot your mom and I have to fit in at the moment.’
David continued to look doubtfully between his mother and father. ‘It all just comes down to my taking my bi
ke to practice tomorrow, so you can both get on with what else you both have to do.’
‘It does,’ agreed Ann, with the same belated recall as Slater.
‘So it’s fixed then!’ persisted David.
‘Unless I can get there in time to pick you up; fit your bike in the trunk,’ capitulated Ann. ‘If I don’t, you call me at the gallery, the moment you get home, OK?’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ grinned David. ‘I want to see what all the big deal is about; why we’re suddenly famous. I’ll stop by the gallery on my way back. How’s that?’
‘Perfect!’ accepted Ann.
Which was exactly the word Mason muttered aloud to himself the following morning when he saw David leave home not to collect his friend and catch the school bus but on his bicycle, hunched beneath his backpack. It was Wednesday, Mason realized. Most probably after-school practice night.
Seventeen
Jack Mason’s knuckles stretched white with the force with which he had to grip the steering wheel to stop the sudden shaking in his hands. His left leg began to pump up and down as well and he needed to use his trembling left hand to press down to stop that, too. He was glad he hadn’t tried immediately to drive away. It took several minutes for the tremors to stop – in his leg first – but he remained hunched forward, holding on, to make sure they didn’t erupt again. He wasn’t frightened, he told himself; not too nervous, unable to do it. Ridiculous to have thought it. It was anticipation: excited anticipation. Better now. Had to think now. Plan everything in sequence. And he had all day in which to do it. All day to put everything in place and make sure nothing went wrong.
Mason watched his hand, reaching out to the ignition. Steady as a rock. Everything was all right now, he decided, picking up the road back to Chesapeake, his mind clear, mentally ticking off what he had to do and the order in which he had to do it. First rule before initiating any intelligence operation was to guarantee an escape. So he had to be ready, no loose ends left dangling, the moment he made the hit. Which remained an uncertainty. The shaking – anticipation, not nervousness, he told himself again – had been a fucking nuisance. If there hadn’t been that reaction he could have followed the kid, ensuring that he really was cycling to school. Too late now. Now he had to stay with the assumption that it was going to be another delayed return home, possibly involving training indicated by last week’s sports bag and that for some reason his father couldn’t that night pick him up. Assumption after assumption, Mason recognized. Second rule before initiating an intelligence operation: assume as little as possible, confirm as much as possible. Nothing he could do about that, either. It looked like his best shot and he had to go with it. But be ready to abort, at the first indication of danger.
Mason’s mind jumped forward at the word, at the thought of what would be the most dangerous moment for him afterwards, glad he hadn’t cleared the town but wishing he’d begun to look earlier, at the first thought of escape. Mason forced himself to remain calm, which became even more difficult after he detoured to pick up David’s obvious and most direct route between the school and Hill Avenue and failed to find anything remotely suitable within the necessary walking distance of the shopping precinct. He was luckier retracing the parallel routes, isolating a ramp to an overpass that in turn led on to the interstate link, again curbing his impatience at the necessity to park and examine its possibilities on foot. In the cavern created beneath the ramp was the predictable bedstead and old chair dumping place, additionally littered with the empty bottles and several identifiable syringes and cooking spoons of an improvised shelter and shooting gallery for druggies and winos, although at that moment it was empty. It stank of stale piss. Mason estimated that the search had delayed him by forty-five minutes and decided against looking any further, adding more unpredictability to his list.
He’d hardly bothered to unpack and needed less than five minutes to clear the fishing cottage, leaving his laptop as the last item to go into the car’s trunk so he could access his monitoring sites. Nothing had been added to the correspondence he’d already read, the letter to Patrick Bell the only one outstanding. The letting agent was in his office when Mason stopped to return the key with a story of his sudden and unexpected recall to New York. With only four days to go before the expiry of the three-week rental he didn’t, of course, expect any refund adjustment. The only telephone calls had been incoming, so the utilities deposit would be more than adequate but if it wasn’t any extra could be deducted from the inventory down payment. He’d call to tell the man where to send any balance, with no intention of doing so or expecting it; whatever the amount was – $450 maybe – was a lost business expenditure. The realtor said he hoped Mr Peterson had enjoyed himself sufficiently to visit again and offered his card and Mason said he might well do that.
Mason stayed in Lexington Park long enough to buy six plastic jerry cans at a supermarket, as well as an almost forgotten but necessary copy of the Frederick News-Post, but he only stopped twice on his way to Annapolis, limiting himself to just one gallon of petrol at each gas station to avoid attracting attention by bulk buying. He still arrived before noon, so sure he was well up to schedule that he allowed an hour for lunch, not sure when he’d be able to eat again. He found a store selling phone cards for the necessary untraceable calls he had to make on the same street as an American Express travel office and bought one to the value of fifty dollars. At the travel office he booked another ‘red eye’ flight to San Francisco, the last out that night from Washington’s Dulles airport.
He decided to use the card from the main post office in Annapolis and made his first call to Patrick Bell, prepared for the conversation by having read the Pennsylvania Prison authority response the previous night but more intent upon establishing a double insurance alibi for what was to happen later that day. He was sure there was no way he could be linked to David Slater but the one unanswered, hovering question was whether he had been picked up on the CCTV.
‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch before,’ Mason opened. ‘I’m calling from the West Coast. San Francisco.’
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Job hunting. I’m thinking of relocating, like I told you. The parole authority know all about it. They think it’s a good idea.’ Caught by an after-thought Mason added hurriedly, ‘I haven’t even had time to check my Post Office box.’
‘Any luck?’
So he hadn’t missed a letter, Mason realized, relieved. ‘It’s looking good but nothing definite. What about the compensation claim?’
‘They’re offering a non-liability payment of $5,000,’ said the lawyer.
‘They can stick it up their ass!’ dismissed Mason, his reply ready.
‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’
‘By making the offer they’re actually admitting liability, aren’t they?’ Mason had expected the approach to be rejected outright.
‘I think so,’ agreed the attorney.
‘So it’s a bluff. And a cheap one at that,’ said Mason. ‘So we call it, like we’ve already agreed.’
‘If those are your instructions,’ accepted Bell.
‘They are.’
‘What sort of figure will you accept?’ asked the lawyer.
‘Their best,’ said Mason. ‘We’ll talk about it when we see their response to the threat of a court case.’ And which I’ll read before I telephone you, he thought.
It was ten thirty in the morning, California time, when Mason made the call to Beverley Littlejohn’s San Francisco office. ‘Where have you been?’ she gushed, the moment she recognized his voice. ‘I didn’t know what was happening!’
‘Legal things, my mother’s estate,’ said Mason. ‘I’m coming back out.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. You want to see if Santa Barbara is vacant? We could go down late on Friday.’
‘If I took Friday off we could go down late tomorrow … if you wouldn’t be too tired, that is.’
‘I won’t be too ti
red, not until after I’ve said hello,’ promised Mason, heavily. ‘I’ve fixed it with Glynis, so there’s no need to talk to her, OK?’ He was glad this was the last time they were going to be together. She had her use as a good fuck but he didn’t like the claustrophobic cloying.
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘OK. Please don’t get angry.’
Shut up, for Christ’s sake, Mason thought. Aloud, softly, he said, ‘I’m not angry. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll come to the apartment.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Mason made four separate gas station stops on his way back to Frederick, only just able to close the trunk after the last petrol can. A feeling of sickening emptiness, as if he needed to eat, settled in his stomach as he got close to the town and he gripped the wheel more tightly, but there was thankfully no repetition of that morning’s shaking. He drove up Hill Avenue and past Slater’s seemingly deserted house to loop on to the cross street and get the space next to the corner slot in which the 4x4 was customarily left. The Cherokee swept in precisely on time, the Latino owner walking immediately away without glancing at the car next to him. By the time the Volkswagen arrived Mason had established that there was no telltale alarm light flashing on the Cherokee’s dashboard and that there was a lot of encouraging rust, particularly around the door lock and sill.
Mason remained where he was for a further fifteen minutes, psyching himself up as he pulled on the latex gloves, waiting for the school bus to arrive. David wasn’t among those who disembarked, although the overweight friend was. Mason wished the empty hollowness would go but it didn’t. He’d positioned the car perfectly to hide what he was doing when he thrust the door open. The rusted door lock collapsed inwardly at the first thrust of the hollow pipe against it. There was no scream from a disturbed alarm. It took him just minutes to transfer the petrol cans between the two vehicles, still hidden by the open door. The Cherokee ignition caved in after two heavy jabs from the pipe and fired the moment he crossed the wires behind the automatic steering wheel lock, which released immediately.