Page 46 of The List
“I appreciate this, Brent. I’ll rest easier tonight knowing this matter has been taken care of.”
O UTSIDE C HRIS STOOD FOR A FEW MINUTES AND ADMIRED THE flower beds full of white impatiens and bushy green shrubs, happily saying goodbye to Catherine and Brent Walker.
Finally, he climbed into the white Ford and headed off.
Several cars lined the street. One was a dark-blue Buick, parked and apparently empty.
But as soon as he passed and began to turn the corner, he caught a glimpse in his rearview mirror—
Of it following.
6:30 P.M.
T HE GRANDFATHER CLOCK CHIMED ONCE FOR THE HALF HOUR WHEN Chris opened the front door and entered his house inside Hickory Row.
He declined dinner and marched straight upstairs.
A hot shower relaxed him. With pajamas and robe on he settled into an upholstered French chaise that angled from one corner of the bedroom.
Once he was gone, little doubt remained that Lee and Hughes would drastically escalate the Priority program.
Proof of that had been building for some time.
Three months back Lee had attempted to use the program to narrow the company’s competition on a government bid submission.
But he’d blocked that effort thanks to a nervous Larry Hughes who got cold feet and, for once, sided with him.
There’d been repeated talk about eliminating some of the more aggressive and successful salesmen at their competitors.
And there was the totally unauthorized use last summer when, to close a deal, Hughes had ordered De Florio to blackmail a grocery store chain’s purchasing agent with the misfortune of having not one, but two, girlfriends and a wife.
None of that had been contemplated when the program began.
Which was one reason why he’d done what he had.
The other, perhaps the more important reason, was his hatred for the two men who’d soon inherit total control of what he’d built.
Yet he wasn’t na?ve.
Lee and Hughes would stop at nothing to plug the gushing leak he’d left behind.
He’d been followed from Concord, so they probably already knew of his visit to the Walker home.
He’d also openly carried the brown envelope inside, then left without it.
Lee earlier made a point of mentioning Brent’s mother.
Was it right to involve the younger lawyer?
To put him, and his family, in obvious danger?
And what about Hank Reed’s daughter and granddaughter?
They were now in the crosshairs too. No doubt existed that De Florio would be dispatched, following his files, instructing his associates on precisely what to do.
He’d be efficient and merciless. Purely business.
As he himself had voiced on more than one occasion.
Maybe what he’d prepared would provide Reed and Walker with at least a chance at success.
That was the hope.
One thing was certain, though.
Brent Walker and Hank Reed would have more of a tactical advantage than any previous Priority—excluding, of course, himself.
11:59 P.M.
J ON TURNED THE brASS HANDLE TO THE PATIO DOOR.
Unlocked.
He smiled.
Then pushed the door inward, stepping inside without a sound.
The foyer clock chimed loud for midnight. He slowly climbed the stairs, one at a time, a carpet runner cushioning his feet, the upstairs hall likewise carpeted, masking all sound.
At the bedroom, he swung the door inward.
“G OOD EVENING,” C HRIS SAID THROUGH THE DARK.
He was still reclined in the chaise, drifting in and out of a light sleep over the past few hours, patiently waiting.
De Florio closed the door. “Good evening, Mr. Bozin. Mr. Lee said you’d most likely be expecting me.”
“I assume I’ve been Prioritized?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? A program I conceived now being used to eliminate its creator.”
De Florio said nothing.
“Is this how’s it’s done?” he asked. “You just appear?”
“Surprise is an element we use to our advantage. Of course, here, there was no surprise.”
“How many have there been, Jon? How many visits in the night?”
“I don’t keep a tally. I just do my job. As ordered by you and your fellow shareholders.”
He stood, walked to the bed, and sat on the edge.
De Florio approached in front of him.
“Is there a file on me, Jon?”
“No, sir. Neither the time nor the need. You left a clear trail to your doctor, which answered all questions.”
“How am I to be processed?”
“Actually, I thought I’d give you a choice. I brought chemicals for heart or lung failure.”
“How thoughtful. All consistent with my cancer, I assume?”
“Of course.”
“What about an autopsy? Is it not a possibility? After all, my illness is not exactly life threatening at this point. I have some time left.”
“Mr. Lee left instructions for you to be cremated in the morning.”
He nodded. “Once everyone is told I was dying anyway, nobody will question a thing. My doctor will confirm the cancer, all will be right.”
“It also helps that the local coroner works at the paper mill. He’ll be most cooperative, I’m sure.”
“That he will. Will you mourn me, Jon?”
“You were an excellent employer. I will miss you, as will a great deal of other people.”
“I’m not so sure. Once the world discovers what we did, I doubt I’ll be missed at all.”
“And how will they find out?”
A light chuckle. Brevity in the face of death. “Clever, Jon. I’m sure Hamilton wants you to learn all you can.”
“Only doing my job, sir.”
“And you do it so well.” His sarcasm was clear. “Will the choices you’ve been so kind to provide cause instant death?”
“They will. That’s all we deal with.”
“Any associated pain?”
“None. I was careful to choose chemicals that were painless.”
“That was, again, most thoughtful.”
“As I said, it was a pleasure to work for you.” De Florio stepped closer. “Mr. Bozin, may I ask, on a personal level, why you’re doing this?”
He stared through the darkness at the shadow of death. It had come just as certainly as if he was taking his own life, which in a loose sort of way he was. “Cancer is a slow, painful way to die. Believe me, what you’re about to do is nothing but relief.”
“But why destroy the company, your reputation, your partners?”
“ What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul? Mark 8:36. I lost mine a long time ago.”
He stood and, like every night, slipped off his silk robe and carefully draped it across the foot of the bed. He lay down on the sheets and jerked up the left pajama sleeve, exposing his arm. “I assume, since there’ll be no body to examine, there’s no point in disguising the injection point.”
“It does seem unnecessary.”
“Heart failure. Let’s go with that.”
De Florio reached into his right coat pocket and removed a syringe.
“How do you know which one?”
“I wrap rubber bands around the outside. One or two. Touch is an important sense a lot of people tend to ignore.”
He smiled.
De Florio found a penlight in his trouser pocket, switched it on, and stuck it in his mouth.
“Would you like me to hold that?” he asked.
De Florio removed the light. “If you like.”
He held the light above his left arm. De Florio carefully inserted the needle and emptied the barrel. He handed the light back, then settled into the pillow.
“Good luck, Jon.”
“Same to you, Mr. Bozin.”
His heart stopped.
That was fast.
Strange, not to feel it beat.
He stared ahead, into blackness, and as his brain consumed the final few molecules of oxygen available, his last conscious thought was of Brent Walker and Hank Reed.
Wishing them good luck also.