After all of the fights Mason had been in, ever since he was kid, a ninety-pound weight advantage was the one thing he had no answer for. Now it seemed like the one final fact that would end his life.
The man was on top of him. Mason could smell the faint trace of alcohol on the man’s breath, mixing with sweat and fear. He could already taste the blood in his mouth as the man hit him again. Then again. It was all going dark. And when the man hit him square in the throat, he took what would surely be his last breath. For one moment he saw the face of his daughter when she was four years old. He’d never see her as a nine-year-old. He’d never see anything else again, apart from the dark outline of the man above him, poised with his fist in the air, ready to drive it into Mason’s head one last time.
Then he felt the hard metal of the gun butt just under the bed. He pulled it out and brought the barrel to the man’s chest. He fired, the kick of the gun twisting it painfully in his hand, the body muffling the shot for everyone in the city except Nick Mason. It rang in his ears. And the ringing said to him, This is the first man you’ve ever killed.
Mason untangled himself from the man’s dead weight. He went to the bathroom and flicked on the light. As he looked back, he saw the exit wound in the man’s back. It was a ragged, softball-sized hole in the man’s suit coat. And as he looked at the walls and ceiling, he saw the man’s blood and tissue all over the place. He looked in the bathroom mirror and saw more blood on his face. His own blood, the man’s blood—he didn’t even know, or care, at that point. His cheek and eyebrow were already beginning to swell.
Mason wanted to take his gloves off to wash his hands and to feel the cold water against his face. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew he had to get out of there and not leave a trace.
Breathe, he told himself. Breathe and move.
And don’t make any stupid mistakes.
He took one of the towels and held it against his eye. Then he took a quick look around the room. He couldn’t quite figure out what was missing until it finally came to him. There was no luggage in the room. The man checked in and he was sitting here, watching the television, but he had no luggage.
He was waiting for someone, Mason thought. Someone who could be here at any moment.
Mason put the gun in his jacket pocket. He gave the room one more quick look and that’s when he saw the man’s billfold, sitting on the bed.
He saw the glint of silver.
He went closer. He looked down at the star. There was no need to pick it up. No need to touch it. It was already telling him everything he needed to know.
Nick Mason had just killed a cop.
13
Mason closed the door to Room 215, trying to reconcile that there was a dead man—a dead cop—on the other side.
The towel was spotted with blood, so he put it inside his jacket as he stepped out onto the balcony and back into the stairwell. He stopped dead when he saw the security camera. It was mounted on this side of the concrete header over the entrance to the stairs. On his way up, there had been no way to see it.
Mason kept going. Down the stairs, still lit pale orange by the exit sign. He got in the Mustang, started it, backed up, and then gunned it onto the street.
Slow down, he told himself. It’s time to be straight and correct.
He made himself bring the car to a stop as the traffic light went from yellow to red. He sat there idling for a moment, waiting for his heart rate to come down. Then he saw the flashing blue and red lights. The police car came around the corner, running silent and fast. The cop driving the car looked the Mustang up and down. Mason knew his face couldn’t be seen through the tinted glass, but the car itself was unmistakable. Mason poised his right foot on the accelerator, ready to see what this thing could do from a standing start. But the police car kept going.
Mason let out his breath. The light turned green. He pulled out slowly and drove down the street, looking in his rearview mirror. There was nobody behind him.
He pulled out his cell phone and called Quintero.
“There was a security camera,” he said as soon as Quintero answered. “I’m fucked.”
“Relax,” Quintero said. “Get a grip on yourself.”
“I got spotted by a patrolman, too. If the guy knows cars, I’ll stick in his head. When he finds out what happened at the motel, he’ll remember he saw a 1968 Mustang one block away.”
“I’m going to give you an address.”
“That was a cop in the motel, by the way.”
“The place will look abandoned, but we’ll open up the door when you get there.”
“Did you hear me?” Mason said. “That guy was a cop.”