World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  But he still loved Boston, missed its unpredictable weather and the people and the air that always seemed to be crackling with an energy and life he had never experienced anywhere else.

  Boston was home.

  If you missed it so much, then why were you so anxious to leave? a voice asked.

  A large black man turned the corner. He glided up the corridor with a cool, easy rhythm, the solidity of his three-hundred-pound presence, his six-foot-eight frame and the slow, methodical deliberation of his movements giving him the aura of Darth Vader. People moved out of the way and turned their heads and gawked, their eyes guarded and nervous.

  Jackson Booker lumbered on and chewed his gum, oblivious or not caring, Conway never knew which.

  Conway remained seated. Book was dressed completely in black: the stylish overcoat, trendy suit and shoes, even the hip sunglasses all of it by Versace. His shaved head gleamed in the overhead fluorescent light, the muscles along his jaw flexing as he methodically worked the gum. He had been a football star at the University of New Hampshire, but two bum knees had prevented him from being drafted to the NFL.

  "You with Puff Daddy?" Conway said, grinning.

  "It's P-Diddy. Can't you honkys get anything right?" His words, like his movements, glided on their own rhythm, his voice deep and sleepy: an edgy Barry White.

  "Sorry I'm late," Booker said.

  "Old cracker held me up at the security gate."

  "Guy probably thought you were a master criminal."

  Book blew a pink bubble, popped it.

  "You think?"

  "You definitely give off that vibe."

  "And here I was thinking I was the CEO of a highly successful global security agency." Book shifted the wad of bubble gum to the other side of his mouth.

  "The wake's not until four. It's just after noon. Let's go grab lunch."

  "I'm not real hungry."

  "Then you can come with me and watch what I eat. You and I need to talk."

  The Oak Room, located inside the prestigious Copley Fairmont Hotel, was a dimly lit bar that reminded Conway of the kind of enormous library found inside a Newport mansion. The high mahogany walls were decorated with various paintings, the maroon carpet stamped with what appeared to be family crests. In the center of the room was a piano, played at night while you dined on the upper level that offered window views of the beautifully lit city.

  The bar was at half capacity when the maitre d' seated Booker and Conway in the corner, near the tall pane window overlooking St. James Street and the red carpet that led up to the hotel entrance. Booker ordered a Poland Springs with a lime; Conway went straight for the gin and tonic. He sat with his back to the window, the November sun warm on his back. He had already polished off one drink and had asked for another. He declined lunch.

  "Going liquid this early is a bad idea, bro," Booker said after the waiter had left.

  "I had something to eat on the plane."

  Booker leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and popped cashews one at a time into his mouth. The car ride had been quiet, the death of their friend lay between them. Conway didn't want to talk. What he really wanted was to be left alone and get drunk.

  "How's Austin?" Booker asked after a moment. His coat was off but his sunglasses were still on.

  "Hot and humid. During the summer, it gets so bad you have to stay inside. Everyone has air conditioning."

  "You hate the heat."

  "You get used to it."

  "Praxis must be laying down some serious benjamins."

  "I do okay," Conway said, knowing where the discussion was headed.

  "These alpha-gee ks I got working for me, they don't like to collaborate, they don't like to ask questions, they all want to be the top dog but lack social skills. You got all the skills and can speak their language."

  "Why do I have a feeling you're about to offer me a job again?"

  "You know all of the tech-talk, you come in and wrangle the nerd herd, do some security work, and put that kenpo training of yours into action. A lot of the boys I got are big but they're not second-degree black belts."

  "Playing bodyguard to overpriced movie stars when they come into town?"

  "You rather stay in Texas and sweat your balls off?"

  "Austin's nice. I enjoy it."

  "You think you can enjoy making one fifty large?"

  "You don't work with or for close friends. It's a rule."

  "You've used that one on me before. You going say no again, be creative, come up with some new material."

  "Why you want me so bad? There are dozens of guys out there who have more technical experience than I do."

  "Besides my wife, I trust two people on this planet," Booker said.

  "I'm about to bury one, and the other is sitting across from me."

  Conway didn't know what to say; intimate, touchy-feely conversations like this made him nervous. He polished off his gin and tonic. A good buzz was coming; he could feel it building, warm and comforting.

  Drink all you want, Steve. Nothing's going to change the fact that John Riley's dead.

  He wanted to shut the voice up. Drown it with alcohol. Conway signaled the waiter and ordered another. Booker turned his head to the side, as if he had had enough of this particular conversation, and for several minutes watched the two elderly women a few tables over share a pot of tea and a club sandwich. A couple of older men were here dressed in suits. Conway wondered if Angel Eyes was in the room or somewhere close, watching them.

  The waiter came by with a fresh drink. Conway waited until the man disappeared and then said, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

  "JR.'s girlfriend," Book said.

  "I didn't think Miranda was still in the picture."

  "Not Miranda, Renee Kaufrnann. She works with him at that Internet startup in Cambridge."

  "The name doesn't ring a bell." Which didn't surprise him. Since his arrival in Austin, he had been consumed with working on Dixon and creating the trap to catch Angel Eyes. Conway's efforts at keeping in touch were lackluster at best. Lots of e-mails and some phone calls with just some quick hellos, but nothing of substance.

  "JR. said he was thinking of getting married. I think he may have picked out a ring," Booker said.

  "At least that's what he told me."

  "How's she taking it?"

  "Don't know. She's disappeared."

  Conway stared at the chunks of ice floating in the tall glass.

  "She was supposed to return from Amsterdam two days ago," Book said.

  "Renee hasn't been back to work, and she hasn't been back to her apartment."

  Conway felt a spasm in his stomach. Angel Eyes has her. He's going to use her as a bargaining chip. Now her life is on the chopping block. (because of you) "The autopsy report confirmed that it was OD."

  "You told me that over the phone," Conway said, his voice hoarse. When he returned from his meeting with Bouchard on Mount Bon-nell, he had come back to the condo and saw the single blink of the red light on the answering machine and in the darkness listened to Booker's message to call immediately. Book said it was an OD, then explained how JR. got a little too heavily into alcohol and coke after the death of his mother, the driving accident that could have resulted in his death, Booker's intervention, and Riley's treatment at the celebrity detox unit in Tuscon. All of it shocked Conway. He had no idea.

  "What I didn't tell you was that it was cocaine and rat poison," Booker said.

  Conway nodded and kept his eyes blank.

  "And I didn't tell where JR. shot up," Booker said.

  "The needle mark was on his neck. That's a last resort for a junkie.

  You got no veins left, you try the neck. JR. didn't have any tracks on his arms, never did. He wasn't a junkie."

  Conway was quiet, the truth about how Riley really died burning across his skin. He wanted to unburden himself of it and couldn't.

  "JR- liked to snort it, always rubbing his nose, telling me he's got alle
rgies in the winter. Mirror and the dollar bill, that's how he liked to get high," Booker said.

  "Not this needle in the neck shit."

  "So what are you saying?"

  "JR. was murdered."

  Conway finished off his drink and then rubbed out a tingling sensation on the back of his neck.

  "Friend of mine on the force, he told me about a 911 call someone placed," Booker said.

  "Caller said a homicide was about to take place, left the address, and described the condo but didn't use JR.'s name."

  "Renee?"

  "No. A guy. Dude didn't leave his name."

  "So there's a witness."

  "Maybe. The 911 caller, he didn't sound upset. Sounded like he was reading off his laundry list."

  "Can you get a copy of this call?"

  "Why?"

  "I'd like to hear it."

  "You all right?"

  "JR. never told me about any of his problems."

  "He tried to keep them hidden. Badly, I might add."

  "But he confided in you, right?"

  "Probably didn't want to look like a failure in your eyes."

  "What?"

  "He admired you. You had a shitty life from day one. You never complained about it. You started out with nothing and made something of yourself. You were always in control. He admired that."

  "Why couldn't he talk to me about his problems?"

  "He said that you were never around."

  Book didn't mean it as a dig, but it was the truth. Conway was never around. He bounced all over the country and was hard to get in touch with; he was home late every night. His world his surrogate family had been the IWAC team.

  And now they're all dead.

  Conway stared at his friend and a voice said, He could be dead tomorrow. Conway finished his drink.

  "Booze is only going to make it worse," Booker said.

  "Keeping it bottled up's not helping either."

  "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

  Booker shook his head, a smirk on the corner of his mouth.

  "I've known you for eleven years now, and every time I talk with you, it's like I'm trying to crack a safe," he said.

  "What the hell you hiding, anyway?"

  At first Conway was grateful for the alcohol. It silenced the collective din of voices inside his head, numbed his frayed nerves, and made him feel impervious to the low throb of the funeral-home organ music and the muted sobs of the mourners.

  Don't look at the casket, don't think about the music, and you'll get through this. Conway repeated the words over and over. For two hours he kept it together, shaking hands and engaging in idle chitchat with John Riley's Boston friends and coworkers, Booker next to him, ominously quiet. Then the time had passed, and the people had left, and it was only Conway and Booker who stood inside the room. Camille, a fellow UNH graduate and a friend of Conway's since college, had left to go home to relieve Book's mother, who had been baby-sitting the twin boys, four-year-olds Trey and Troy.

  Conway stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes fastened on the floor. The alcohol had abandoned him. Now he felt fatigued and drained, and the voices of regret and guilt he thought he had bottled were set free, rising from the depths with a renewed energy and life.

  "Renee never showed up," Booker said, his voice booming inside the small room. A deep sigh, and then he added, "Maybe she'll be at the funeral tomorrow."

  Or maybe Angel Eyes already has her. Maybe she's already dead.

  Conway's head felt light. The room was warm and close with the smell of air freshener and chemicals.

  "I've got to wrap up a few things," Booker said.

  "I've got a room made up for you at the condo."

  "The hotel's fine."

  Booker stood there for a moment, about to say something, Con-way could feel it. Instead, Book turned and sauntered out of the room in that slow, drowsy way of his and opened up the front door. Conway heard it shut, leaving him alone. He stood there, motionless, like a man who couldn't decide if he wanted to cross a bridge or turn around and just go home.

  John Riley was a close friend the guy was like a brother to you and now you just want to turn and walk away because you can't deal with it?

  That's the cheap way out and you know it.

  Conway was aware of his breath, the dryness in his throat and the tightness inside his chest as he took measured steps toward the casket.

  His heart tripping, he knelt down and made the sign of the cross, folding his hands across the railing, his fingers hovering just inches away from John Riley's sleeping, wax like face.

  He died of a combination of rat poison and cocaine. It was an awful way to go, Stephen.

  Riley on the day they went skydiving, when they were both safe on the ground: God protects people like you and me, Stevie.

  John Riley lay in the white-silk bedding of the coffin, dressed in a dark-blue suit and tie, looking like a man who had fallen asleep on the commuter train after a long, hard day.

  Only he's never waking up.

  Stop it.

  You can't run away from it, Stephen. He's dead because of you. Get used to it. No matter where you go, no matter how much time has passed, you will never be able to change that fact.

  Conway took a deep breath and pushed back the tide of feelings, not wanting to give into them, but they were there, refusing to be ignored, building like the pressure behind a dam. The harder he tried to push it away the more intense the feelings became.

  Conway reached out and grabbed Riley's wrist and squeezed it, the skin cold and stiff against his warm palm, and in that instant, Conway felt the finality of his friend's short journey.

  "I'm sorry, John. Wherever you are, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

  Conway looked away at the flowers, saw the small cards hooked on green spears poking up from the bright sea of color petals. Our deepest sympathy. We're sorry for your loss. Our prayers are ivith you and your family in your time of need. His eyes stopped on the card belonging to the basket directly above the casket, the one signed Winston Smith: You live in a wilderness of mirrors, Stephen. Be careful. Jackals surround you.

  Conway stood up so quickly he almost tripped. He tore the card away.

  His entire body was shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone enter the room. Conway wheeled around. It was the funeral director, a pudgy man with carefully combed brown hair and a deep red rose pinned to the lapel of his black suit.

  "Mr. Conway?" The man's tone was low, respectful.

  "Daniel Murray, funeral director. You have a phone call," he said and handed Conway a cordless phone.

  "Who is it?"

  "A man named Jonathan Cole."

  His handler. Right.

  "Hello," Conway said, wondering why Cole hadn't called the cell phone.

  He noticed that the funeral director had not moved away.

  "Stephen, this is Jonathan Cole. Meet me tomorrow at the Holocaust Memorial, on Congress Street, at eleven o'clock."

  Cole hung up. Conway handed the funeral director the phone.

  "I was instructed to give this to you." Murray held up a small, cream-colored envelope wedged between two small fingers.

  Conway took it. No name or postmark on the front, but it was sealed.

  Conway opened the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note from Renee Kaufrnann.

  Steve, I can't talk to you on the phone because I think it's tapped and they could trace me. I'm in Boston, but I don't think they know I'm here. Meet me tomorrow at the New England Aquarium at noon, top floor, near the shark tank. I know who killed John and I have evidence to prove it. Come alone and be careful. I think you're being followed.

  But is this really her? Conway wondered. You've never met her before.

  It could be a trap.

  It was possible that Booker would recognize the handwriting. But that meant involving Booker in this, and the less he knew, the better.

  Conway stared at the note. What if
it isn't a trap?

  Only one way to find out.

  Conway said, "Who gave this to you?"

  "A young gentlemen here at the wake," Murray said.

  "He asked specifically to give this to you when you were alone. I'm sorry for your loss," he said and left the room.

  The New England Holocaust Memorial runs parallel to Boston's ever-busy Congress Street. At the far end is Curley Memorial Plaza, an area of benches that holds the sitting bronze of the Boston Mayor James Curley.

  Another bronze statue of the controversial mayor stands in the center of red brick, his hands folded behind his back, his eyes permanently cast over the architectural splendor of Fanueil Hall and beyond it, the towering, monolithic skyscrapers that comprise the heart of downtown Boston.

  Outside in the cold November air, Amon Faust walked down the blue-gray granite path, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. Six rectangular towers of glass stretched beyond the trees and reached up into the hard blue sky as if they were conduits to heaven. It was a quarter to eleven on a Friday morning, the air crisp and cold but still lacking the bite of winter. No one was inside the memorial, and Stephen Conway wouldn't be here until eleven.

  Faust entered the tower for the concentration camp Auschwitz-Birkenau and stood on the venting grate that hissed white clouds of steam.

  Etched in the glass were thousands and thousands of prison numbers the enormity of a human life and its soul compressed into a cold, random number. Faust wondered if these numbers held any meaning anymore.

  Fifty years had passed since the great beast Hitler unleashed his evil, and people were no longer afraid. What if Hilter had technology on his side? What if he had armed his troops with blinding laser weapons and military suits that rendered them invisible to the enemy? Could Hitler then have carried out his world vision?

  Look at these people, bundled in their coats as they rushed to meetings and important lunches. This new generation didn't mourn history; they were no longer haunted by it. Time had wiped the slate clean and filled fresh new minds with MTV and empty TV talk shows and programs like Survivor laughable, given where he stood right now and the talk of money, it was always money, they were consumed by their spreadsheets and financial projections.