Page 76 of Edge of Ruin
Jack’s hand moved. John pressed the knife tip harder against my throat and clucked his tongue. “Not one muscle. Hands where I can see them. On top of the wheel. Now.”
Jack complied. I wanted to look at him, but I was afraid the knife would jab right into my jugular. My larynx bobbed against it, stinging. “It’s too late to get the sketches,” I said, my voice tight. “I’ve told everyone. Curators at the art museums. Sotheby’s, the press. I’ve scanned pictures to the New York Times, to?—”
“Don’t bother, you dumb bitch,” John hissed. “I know you haven’t done any of that yet. I watched you. I have video cameras all over Knightly’s house. What a bunch of careless, stupid fucks you all are.”
“Cameras?” I was startled. “At Liam’s house?”
He laughed, and the hot cloud of his foul breath made me gag. “All that time they spent in San Francisco with Liam’s dear old long-lost dad,” he said. “I rigged his house. I saw every minute. You never called the press. Just that curator bitch—what was her name? Jill Rosseau. Is she cute? Should I put her on my list?”
I gathered my nerve. “You still won’t be able to sell?—”
“You think I give a fuck about that?” His laughter was shrill and explosive. “If I can’t sell them, I’ll wipe my ass with them the next time I take a shit. All I want is to hurt you. Make you squeal like a little pig.” He jerked my head back, dragging the blade over my tendons. He stank, of sweat, and something worse. Something rotten.
“With Haupt dead, there’s nobody left to pay you for the job, right?” Jack remarked, in a conversational tone. “Damn, that’s unfortunate.”
“Oh. Haupt. That’s another bone I have to pick with you, slut. You killed the old bag of bones before I got a chance to do it myself.”
“You mean you’re doing this for revenge?” Jack sounded casually interested.
My hand clenched in the folds of the dress Nancy had lent me. It closed over the linked pendants that Nell had slipped into the pocket. I slid my trembling fingers inside, felt for the lever with my thumb.
“I’m doing it because you guys fucked me,” John announced. “Nobody fucks me. You pay for that.”
His voice was shaking. So was the hand that held the knife. I pushed the tiny lever of the linked pendants, feeling the thin gold blade snap out, pressing against my thumb. Sharp as a box cutter.
“Must have hurt you quite a bit, with that head smash,” Jack commented. “You must have one motherfucker of a chronic headache.”
“Fuck you,” John said. “Shut your mouth.”
“And that kick to the knee. Did I fuck up your knee? And don’t you have a bullet wound? Your arm, or your shoulder, or something? Has it gone septic? Smells like gangrene, man. You should have somebody look at that. You probably need IV antibiotics. Maybe an amputation.”
“Shut up!” John bellowed.
“Come to think of it, you look like you’ve got a fever, too,” Jack offered. “You should pop some Tylenol. That smell is intense. Whew.”
“Fucking bastard! Shut the fuck up!” John whacked his hand across Jack’s face.
I used his instant of distraction to whip the pendant up, slashing it into John’s cheek. He shrieked, jerked back. Jack twisted?—
Bam. Bam. Bam. The pistol blasts were deafening in the small car.
The force of the bullets punched John back against the corner of the backseat. His big, heavy face went slack. Eyes blank.
His head tipped slowly and heavily to the side, mouth slack.
We waited several seconds, hearts pounding, before Jack reached back, gingerly, and pressed his finger to John’s carotid artery for a long, careful moment.
“Gone,” he said, his voice hoarse and exhausted. The gun slid from his hand, thudded to the floor. He sagged, breathing hard.
“Oh, Jack.” I lunged for him.
We rocked together, in a tight, trembling embrace.
It was over.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jack
