Page 125 of Witness 8

‘What happened?’

‘Well, at first he was discourteous. Then he was rude. There was a small problem with delivery of his money, which I would have rectified, but impatience and intemperance got the better of him. He threatened me.’

‘Sounds like you did what you thought was right.’

‘I have my standards.’

‘Was the contract fully fulfilled?’

‘No.’

‘What about our other business. Is Flynn still alive?’

‘He is, for now.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, and don’t take this as a criticism, but maybe you should think about closing out our contracts in New York?’

Mr. Christmas sighed, said, ‘I didn’t get to where I am by simply fulfilling contracts. As I’ve always said, there are wider considerations.’

‘I’ll leave it to you.’

Mr. Christmas hung up just as a woman fell down a set of steps a hundred yards ahead of him. He looked closer. A man followed her down those steps, picked her up roughly and threw her against a car. Focusing, Mr. Christmas recognized Ruby. He did not recognize the man who was mishandling her, but he saw the gun in his hand clearly enough.

Mr. Christmas turned on the Cadillac’s engine and followed the Range Rover with Ruby Johnson in the passenger seat.

Before he turned left at the end of West 74thStreet he heard the sound of an engine revving high. A distinctive soundfor anyone familiar with cars. A V8 singing its irregular roar of a song. He checked his mirror, and watched Eddie Flynn’s Mustang screech to a halt outside the Jackson house. Exactly the place Mr. Christmas thought Flynn might visit this evening. That was why he had parked there.

He knew then, exactly, what he should do. It was a matter of prudence, purely.

He was a professional, and professionals, before all else, perform their tasks with ruthless efficiency and reliability. Mr. Christmas should circle the block, come up behind Flynn and shoot him in the back of the head.

Hitmen fulfill contracts. They kill people and get paid.

This was logical. This was business.

This was what Mr. Christmas was supposed to do.

59

Ruby

Bale swore, made a right off Riverside Drive, caught the on-ramp for the Henry Hudson Parkway headed north. Traffic was heavy and as soon as they joined, he had to slow and stop. His left hand was still holding the gun in his lap, still pointed at Ruby.

The car in front moved off, and he let his foot off the brake to trundle forward ten feet before stopping again.

‘What did she tell you about me?’

‘She said she loved you.’ Ruby lied.

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘Just that you were seeing other women. You had betrayed her. And she felt bad because she had stood by you . . . after . . .’

‘After I drowned my wife?’ asked Bale.

Ruby felt suddenly very cold.

The pain in Ruby’s arm had not eased. If anything, it was getting worse. What occupied her mind more was that she was feeling something rare and electrifying. Fear. Total fear. She had no play here. No plan. She had to stop these strange feelings and think. The car was locked. She had watched Bale hit the button on his driver’s door to lock all doors as soon as they’d moved off.