Time to Kill

by Brian Freemantle

  Slater snatched across, grabbing Ann’s wrist. ‘It’s Stone, the homicide detective. And Hannigan.’

  The two police officers got out of their car when Slater came in behind, reaching them before they opened their doors. Stone said, ‘We’ve been waiting a while.’

  ‘You got him!’ demanded Ann.

  ‘No, Mrs Slater. We haven’t made much progress I’m afraid. You picked up your handguns and permit today.’

  ‘That’s where we’ve been, picking them up.’

  ‘Three hours ago,’ said Hannigan, pointedly.

  ‘We’ve joined a gun club because—’

  ‘Let’s get into the house,’ interrupted Ann. ‘We’re in the open here in the drive.’

  Inside the house Hannigan said, ‘You’re not licensed to drive around with the handguns.’

  ‘We had to get them home,’ said Slater.

  ‘And we’re going to get a carrying licence,’ said Ann.

  ‘That’s what you should have done, got them straight home,’ said Hannigan. ‘Not stopped on the way.’

  ‘We know the rules,’ said Slater. ‘And we are going to file the application.’

  ‘We’re prepared to let it go this time but let’s not have either of you driving around with a gun on board,’ cautioned Stone. ‘The State of Maryland keeps a pretty tight gun policy.’

  ‘We both just told you we’re going to apply!’ insisted Ann, in a voice that Slater considered too loud and too indignant. She went on: ‘You’re on a homicide investigation, not monitoring handgun licences.’

  ‘People who suffer a loss like you suffered often buy guns,’ said Hannigan. ‘We like making sure it’s for the right reasons.’

  ‘You think you can satisfy the public safety provisions?’ asked Stone.

  ‘I know you’ve spoken to the FBI about a possible connection with car burn killings in other states,’ said Slater, remembering the conversation with Potter. ‘I would have imagined that’s a pretty convincing argument.’

  ‘We don’t think there’s a direct connection with the body in the underpass,’ said Stone. ‘If it was the same car that struck David we think it was an accident.’

  ‘Think,’ qualified Slater, nodding to the outside drive. ‘You told us out there you haven’t made much progress in the case. What positive evidence have you got that there’s definitely no connection?’

  ‘The FBI have spoken to you!’ said Stone, frowning.

  ‘Yes,’ said Slater, conscious of Ann’s attention.

  ‘They haven’t told us they think there’s a hard link,’ said Hannigan.

  ‘They haven’t told me, either,’ said Slater. ‘But I think it’s a strong supporting reason, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not the licensing authority,’ avoided Stone.

  ‘The point that Ann’s just made,’ said Slater. ‘I’m certainly going to spell it out in as much detail as I can in the application. Which will obviously require naming you both as the investigating officers. I was going to tell you, of course. It’s good that you came by.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Hannigan.

  ‘I’ll set out the meeting with David Potter, too.’

  ‘When are you making the application?’

  ‘Tomorrow, first thing.’

  ‘You will remember what we said, though, won’t you?’ said Hannigan. ‘About not driving around with the guns on you, until you get the proper licence?’

  ‘And you’ll remember how anxious we are to know the moment you arrest whoever killed David, won’t you?’ said Ann, again too sharply in Slater’s opinion.

  ‘What car burn killings!’ demanded Ann, when Slater came back into the house from moving his car for the policemen to back out and finally garaging his own vehicle.

  ‘Potter needed a reason to talk to Frederick PD. The FBI don’t have any local jurisdiction.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Slater sighed. ‘It was a cover story, Ann. To avoid having to tell them who I am.’

  ‘What else haven’t you told me?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ann!’

  ‘What else haven’t you told me?’ she repeated.

  ‘There is nothing else I haven’t told you.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you I didn’t believe you?’

  ‘I’d say that our marriage is breaking up,’ replied Slater, exasperated. That’s what David had thought was happening, he remembered.

  Jack Mason decided to avoid Frederick until the evening he chose to ambush Ann and Slater, believing he had the schedule for everything he had to do sequenced in his mind and that he had overlooked nothing except a place to dump the incriminating weapon and laptop. He drove along his intended escape route to within ten miles of the town before turning off the main highway but staying roughly parallel to it, not wanting the deviation to hinder him more than a few minutes after the killing. It had to be water, he supposed: a reservoir or a river. A quarry or a landfill site was another possibility but deep water would definitely be better. It took him an hour to find the creek, isolated in thick woodland and crossed by an echoing wooden bridge, on one side of which a path led down to the bank. Mason clambered down, searching for a marker to gauge the depth. There was no tidal or high water marker but he couldn’t see the bottom. It appeared to flow comparatively fast when he tested it by tossing in some fallen tree debris. The idea came to him as he was collecting up the twigs. He found the branch for which he was looking just beyond the tree line. It was about six foot long and necessarily straight. He clambered back up to the road, checking that it was empty before emerging on to it and walked to the centre of the bridge, testing the balance in his hand before stepping up to the bottom rung of the bridge support, to give himself leverage. He hurled the branch like a spear, guessing it plunged in by at least two feet before being caught up by the water flow. Deep enough, Mason decided. And secluded enough. Testing further, Mason timed the drive to and from the main highway, gauging that the detour would only delay him for a maximum of thirty minutes.

  He’d been dissatisfied with the strength of the first bag he’d bought to carry the Glock in, worried that the vague shape of the gun might actually be visible through the thin plastic. He took his time finding the sports outlet store conveniently close to the First National Bank when he got back to DC. He examined several before buying a stiffly reinforced canvas carrier through which nothing inside would be discernible. The safe deposit ritual went as smoothly as always, and as he walked back to where he’d parked the car, he hefted the bag containing the Glock and the separately bagged ammunition; the weight felt good, comforting. But he was at his most vulnerable, Mason reminded himself, as he had been when retrieving the weapon from New York. He had to drive carefully again: couldn’t risk becoming involved in a traffic accident or being stopped for some idiotic traffic infringement.

  He was close to fulfilling the dream that had sustained him for fifteen robbed years! Mason thought, letting the excitement surge through him. A ten-millimetre bullet could blow a fist-sized hole exiting a body, according to everything he’d read on the Internet during those years in the penitentiary. The imagery of that was exciting, too. He still wished he’d been able to play cat-and-mouse with them longer, terrified them, but that couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t change the schedule now. Everything was arranged in his head, step by step, stage by stage, shot by shot; the anticipated shots most of all. Slater first, for Ann to see him die. Slater was the son of a bitch who’d stolen her from him and got him slammed up. Definitely blow Slater’s face away. Make sure with a second shot. Then Ann, the same way.

  Mason considered stopping at the Old Ebbitt or even one of the 14th Street hooker bars, for an early celebration drink, but just as quickly changed his mind. Step one was to clean, oil and prepare the Glock, a handgun with which he was not familiar and for which he didn’t have a manual to follow the cleaning and reassembly instructions. Too early to celebrate. He could do that later when he
was in New York, waiting for Chambers. He’d be there several days before they were due to meet. Might even include Miriam in the celebrations. Fuck her brains out this time, to prove that the problem the first time had been her fault, not his. Yes, he’d definitely do that. And not give her the fifty bucks bonus, either.

  Mason got back to the Chesapeake shore by four and boiled some hot dogs to eat on the outside deck. He limited himself to two glasses of Napa Valley claret, taking his time about everything. He wanted to be able to remember it all, even something as inconsequential as what he had to eat and how many glasses of wine he drank. Maybe write it down in a diary, set it all out to read, over and over again.

  There was scarcely any wind off the bay, calm enough to clean and prepare the gun outside. He laid out a clean white towel for the gun and the few bullets he had and set out the cleaning material in the order in which he’d need it, deciding against too much dissembling. He released the magazine catch on the left of the butt and pulled back the slide to eject anything in the chamber, which he inspected through the ejection port, surprised how clean it appeared to be. He gently brushed and cleaned the chamber with a clean cloth before following the same procedure with the magazine. He rotated the brush as he gradually entered it the full length of the barrel, anxious to remove the slightest debris or dust from either side of the rifling. Completely satisfied the gun was empty, he released the automatic trigger safety bar before further depressing the trigger to free the hammer and striker pin, blowing and brushing to ensure its unimpeded cleanliness. Without a manual he didn’t know where or by how much to oil. He concentrated on the firing and striker mechanism but only minimally lubricated the barrel. He cleaned and polished the eight bullets that he had, acknowledging as he did so that he had to sacrifice one, maybe more, in test shots, which he could do without attracting any curiosity: ever since he’d been in the cottage there’d been almost a daily sound of waterbird shooting. He’d oiled by instinct and hopefully common sense but there was every chance of his having missed some of the mechanism and he couldn’t risk it jamming.

  He divided his minimal ammunition stash, leaving himself five for the kill and three to guarantee that the Glock operated smoothly. He put the test shots in the magazine and slammed it home and retrieved from the refrigerator two cloves of garlic that he wiped liberally over those that remained, carefully picking away any sticking fibres. He didn’t intend either of them to survive, but he knew from his research that garlic guaranteed fatal blood poisoning and the intended facial shots would make it impossible for either of them to name him if by some miracle either of them survived. As he returned the bullets to their glassine envelope, Mason determined to apply a second garlic coating before loading them into the magazine. And to oil everything again, too.

  He chose for a target the cardboard wrapping of a yoghurt six pack, wedging it against what remained of a grey-weathered, long dead tree stump. Mason carefully scrutinized the shoreline and the scrubland beyond before scouring the lake to establish that all the visible boats and yachts were sufficiently far away and positioned himself about five feet from his target, the distance he estimated he would be from Slater and Ann before they’d be aware of his approach from behind. He dropped into the remembered crouch, aimed and fired. The explosion was deafening, even in the open, and the kick jarring, actually hurting his wrist even though he had it supported by his free hand. Mason missed the cardboard entirely but blasted away almost a foot of the atrophied trunk above. He looked anxiously around, and waited several minutes for any obvious movement, all the time stretching and making a fist of his aching hand and wrist to ease the discomfort. Mason made a far greater allowance for the kick on his second shot, which still wasn’t sufficient, but on the third attempt he blew what remained of the cardboard into confetti and match-sticked the stump down to its protruding roots.

  He wouldn’t bother with the second coating of garlic, he decided. It wouldn’t be necessary.

  ‘The bastards are trying to cover their backs,’ complained David Potter.

  As you’ve been trying to do by involving me, thought Denver, as worried as the FBI supervisor that he risked being identified by the official enquiry from the local PD about a gun carrying licence for Ann and Slater. The whole idea was always too uncertain.’

  ‘I don’t remember you voting against it until now,’ retorted Potter.

  ‘So now I am,’ snapped Denver.

  ‘Perhaps I was wrong,’ said Burt Hodges, anxious to support a former CIA colleague. ‘Perhaps Sobell – sorry, Slater – hasn’t lost the edge after all. He was clever, putting on the pressure like that.’

  The three men were in Potter’s room at the FBI Washington field office, convened by Potter after the approach from Frederick PD. Potter said, I don’t think we’ve got any alternative but to support the issuing.’

  ‘That puts our asses on the line,’ said Denver, alert to Potter’s use of the plural to bind him into the responsibility.

  ‘They always were, if anything went wrong,’ said Hodges, the only one against whom there could be no official censure. ‘According to Harrigan and Stone the guy at the gun club says Slater’s not bad.’

  ‘After one session at the range, not under any pressure!’ rejected Denver. ‘What about the wife?’

  ‘We’ve got it covered,’ insisted Potter, defensively.

  ‘If you’ve got it covered then support the application,’ said Denver, stressing the singular.

  ‘You could always tell Harrigan and Stone.’

  ‘Who’d object, say we should have told them from the start, probably get in the way and fuck everything up. It’s got to stay tight.’

  ‘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

  Jack 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 ot
her 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.’