World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  You have to tell him.

  It was against protocol. A serious breach of JJH Fuck protocol. You want another dead friend?

  Conway thought about the 911 call. Book had provided him with a copy of the tape. The voice on the 911 call was an identical match to the bald guy at the Aquarium. The man reported a murder in progress but didn't give a description of the killer.

  Another piece of the puzzle. But what did it mean?

  A ringing sound made Conway jump.

  It wasn't his cell phone. When Conway had returned from the hotel, a package was waiting for him at the front desk in the lobby of Booker's condo building. Inside the box was a cell phone and a note telling Conway to leave the phone turned on. He rushed over to the nightstand, grabbed the phone and pressed it up against his ear.

  "Hello?"

  "Having trouble sleeping, Stephen?" Angel Eyes asked.

  "I hope you don't mind me calling at such a late hour," he said.

  "After the day's events, I thought you would be up, ruminating. How are you coping?"

  The man's tone was distant; a dry click separated the words. Gone was the confidence Conway had witnessed earlier today. It was almost as if the man was… what, grieving?

  "I'm fine," Conway said, dazed and yet somewhat curious.

  "Why did you leave me this phone at the front desk?"

  "So we could talk privately, on a secured line. Or have you invited your friends to listen?"

  "It's just you and me." His IWAC cell phone, the Palm Pilot, and watch given to him just hours ago by Cole, all of those items had been placed inside a freezer bag and stuffed into his gym bag. That and his suitcase full of clothes were now sitting on the floor in Booker's living room. Conway didn't want Cole overhearing any conversation.

  "I've been thinking about you a lot today, Stephen. I never met my parents. Like you, I had to fend for myself. I spent most of my life as a runaway in Europe. I was homeless for good periods of my life.

  Like you, I was so full of rage. I read that you carved up Todd Merrill's face with glass."

  "What do you mean you read?"

  "Welcome to the electronic age. There are no more secrets." Angel Eyes took in a deep draw of air and then sighed.

  "Did you ever try to track down your birth mother?"

  Conway didn't say anything. The problem was, the image of the man he had carried for so long inside his head this faceless entity that stole high-tech weapons and killed people or made them disappear, this intelligent wfor-villain the CIA knew only as Angel Eyes didn't match the polished gentleman from earlier today. Conway was still trying to figure the guy out, to discover the true agenda locked behind the surface smile and cunning words that, once formed and sharpened, had the ability to flay the soul.

  "Am I getting too personal?" Angel Eyes asked.

  "The past is the past. I don't think about it."

  "It's okay to be vulnerable with me, Stephen. It doesn't make you less of a man. I certainly don't think any less of you. You are, in fact, one of the bravest people I've ever met."

  Conway's heart was tripping inside his chest with an anxiety he couldn't name. Must be the dream, what it meant. Yes. The dream was still fresh in his mind. He stared out the window at the snow that was coating the city in a fine white blanket.

  "I was roughly your age when I decided to undertake one of the most terrifying journeys of my life," Angel Eyes said.

  "It didn't take much to un shroud the mystery. Two weeks' worth of work and I tracked her down to this disgusting flat in London. There she was, this small, petite creature with chemically treated blond hair and bad eyesight, her spine twisted with osteoporosis, clearly in pain as she tended to the flowers in her garden. The poor thing had to use a walker to get around. For days I watched her from my car. No visitors or friends ever came by. It was heartbreaking."

  "What was her name?"

  "What's important, Stephen, was what I did. I rang her doorbell and had my first panic attack. There I was, standing on her porch, and I thought I was going to faint. I looked through the door's paneled window and saw her arthritic claw fumbling at the lock, and I ran away.

  Can you imagine that? Me, a grown man, very successful, and I ran away and buried my hands in my face and cried like a child. I was terrified at what I would discover. It took a couple of days, but I came to my senses and went back just in time to see her body being wheeled into the back of an ambulance. She had died in her sleep." Angel Eyes sighed against the receiver. A wet click in his throat and then he said, "All those questions… they went unanswered. Failing to gather the courage to talk to her was one of the worst mistakes I ever made.

  I regret it to this day, Stephen. Don't make the same mistake."

  "This is why you called me? Because of your mother?"

  "No. I needed someone to talk to. A companion who would understand the depth and severity of my loss."

  "Your loss," Conway said, his voice rising before he could stop it, the anger leaking out from behind the locked door. In his mind he saw it all in a rush: the bodies of the dead IWAC members; Pasha bruised and walking as if she were crippled; and John Riley as he twisted on the floor, his shaking hand gripping his chest, wanting to claw through the skin and break apart the bone and stop the spasms in his heart, his final breaths becoming shorter, more painful.

  "Today, at the Aquarium, the man who came in to help you, his name was Gunther." Angel Eyes's voice caught.

  "I've known him since he was a boy."

  Conway started pacing the floor, his palms ringing, wanting to hit something.

  This guy can deliver you Dixon and the suit (Can he? Or is it Raymond ) but you've got to play his game. You're the only person who's seen this guy up close and lived and now you got him on the phone, Jesus Christ, Steve, don't blow it because you're pissed off. You might not have this opportunity again.

  "I've lost men before, people I've liked and respected, but this…

  This is the first time I've lost someone close to me. Someone I cared for and loved. Deeply." Angel Eyes swallowed audibly. When he cleared his throat and spoke, his voice almost trembled.

  "This boy was my life and now he's gone."

  Conway could feel the words burning on his tongue. He leaned forward and placed one hand against the window.

  "Why are you being so quiet, Stephen?"

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "How about thank you?"

  "For what?"

  "Gunther saved your life, Stephen. Twice."

  Conway turned his head away from the window. He hadn't expected that.

  "When you were spit out of the tank, you had a gun pointed to the back of your head. One of Misha's men was dressed as a police officer,"

  Angel Eyes said. Darker.

  "Gunther shot him before he had a chance to blow your head off."

  Conway felt drops of sweat slide down his armpits.

  "The second time was at Praxis, just as the suit was leaving," Angel Eyes said.

  "I had a chance to save you or to go after the suit. Gunther went in and found you unconscious. He carried you out of the lab and dropped you outside, where the EMTs rescued you."

  "So what's your interest in all of this?"

  "Like you, I'm trying to make the world a safer place. Only you're working for the wrong team."

  "So you admit to wanting the suit."

  "Of course."

  "Why?"

  "To keep it out of the hands of the people you work for."

  "And why should I believe you?"

  "Why the recalcitrance, Stephen? Didn't you talk with Renee Kaufmann?"

  "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

  "She's not with me, Stephen."

  "Then where is she?" Conway asked. Deep in his heart, he already knew the answer.

  "Why don't you ask Raymond or his partner, Mr. Cole. You have their numbers."

  Conway didn't say anything.

  "Misha didn't work for me, Stephen. I make it a habit
of not associating with liars and thieves. I was delighted to hear of Misha's denouement inside the tank. My only complaint is that it should have been slower."

  "I didn't talk with her," Conway said again.

  "I haven't lied to you, Stephen, and I never will. I despise it. I expect you to honor me with the same courtesy."

  "Honor you'?"

  "What terrifies you more, Stephen? The truth or the fact that you've placed your loyalties, your trust and your life the very essence of who you are with jackals, men who view you as nothing more than a means to an end. You've been used."

  Conway thought of the CD waiting for him at the bank. Then he thought of the bald man at the Aquarium the man Angel Eyes had called Gunther on his knees and clutching his stomach as he whispered his final words:

  Bouchard's dirty. He's setting you up. Stay away from him and his partner, Cole. You can't trust them. This was the same man who had called 911 and reported John Riley's murder.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Conway said.

  "Burying your head in the sand will not make the truth go away."

  "Dixon has nothing to do with this."

  "You're right. He's an innocent victim."

  So casual in the way he said it, it took Conway aback.

  "Release Dixon and I'll give you the decryption code," he said.

  "So you do know the code."

  Conway saw Randy speaking the decryption code in the dream and knew it was true.

  "Once I know Dixon is safe, I'll deliver you the code," he said.

  "Poor, poor, Stephen. The vultures are circling, and all you want to do is cover your eyes."

  Conway had a feeling of sinking in quicksand, of losing ground in the conversation.

  "Don't play innocent. You killed Alan Matthews."

  "Yes."

  That took Conway aback.

  "Alan Matthews was a budding pedophile. It was only much later, after I had already gone into business with him, that we found pictures of nude little boys in a lock box inside his condo. That's why he couldn't get it up for the girls or for the guys. Alan's true desires rested in smooth, hairless skin. Money can buy almost anything, Stephen. Especially secrecy."

  "So you admit to killing him."

  "I wasn't going to finance his prepubescent cravings. And Matthews was greedy. But his greed didn't hold a candle to the people who own your soul."

  "That didn't give you the right to kill him."

  "And what gave you the right to permanently disfigure Todd Merrill's face?"

  "What about Jonathan King? What you did to him was " "I didn't do anything to him, Stephen. I've never even met the man. If you want to know the truth, turn your attention to the animals lurking in your backyard."

  "And the others? What happened to them?"

  "They're all safe."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Would you like to talk with them?"

  "You know where they are?"

  "Of course. They work for me now."

  Conway's head echoed with competing voices.

  "Let me tell you something about yourself, Stephen. What keeps you awake at night is your desperate need to have the world exist in black and white. Right and wrong, good and bad, all if it neatly labeled and stored away in your safe mental storage jars. Such thinking is admirable given your background. But this sanitized version of the world doesn't exist, Stephen. Life breathes in shades of gray. Holding onto such secular belief structures in your current profession is not only foolish, it's dangerous."

  Conway's throat felt dry, his heart tripping inside his chest with anticipation of a possible knowledge he didn't want to accept. For a moment, he couldn't speak.

  "I can give you the life you crave, Stephen. I can help fill those missing pockets because once they were missing in me too, Stephen." A pause, then his voice was lower, as if whispering a secret.

  "I can show you worlds you couldn't possibly imagine."

  "Your friend, Gunther, I know he called 911," Conway said.

  "I've listened to the tape and I recognized his voice. Tell me what you saw."

  "Prometheus confined all of man's evils inside a box. Pandora opened the box and unleashed all the evils back into the world. So it will be with you. Revelations are at hand, Stephen. Be prepared to have your foundation shaken to its core."

  Conway could feel a cold sweat break across his skin.

  "One last thing, Stephen. Your mother's among the living. Her first name is Claire," Angel Eyes said and hung up.

  Conway tossed the phone onto the bed. Sleep was gone. His mind was too charged up, too busy searching for answers inside an endless loop that he could never seem to shut off. He leaned one arm against the cool window and looked at the city, his old home, swirling with snow and memories, the raw wind outside howling against the building.

  Bouchard's dirty. He's setting you up. Stay away from him and his partner, Cole. You can't trust them.

  I haven't lied to you, Stephen, and I never will. I despise it.

  Revelations are at hand, Stephen. Be prepared to have your foundation shaken to its core.

  What if Angel Eyes was telling the truth?

  Conway wanted to talk with Pasha. He would have to figure out a way to do it without tipping off… Go ahead and say it, Stephen. Figure out a way to do it without tipping off Raymond or Cole.

  Conway's throat ached. He wanted something cold to drink. He opened the bedroom door, about to step out and navigate his way through the semidarkness to the kitchen, when he heard Booker's wife, Camille.

  "Dammit, Book, I want to talk about this. Now."

  Camille was talking in a hushed but urgent tone. Conway turned and looked down the long hallway. Their bedroom door was cracked open, but the lights were off, the bedroom dark. Booker said something that Conway couldn't hear.

  "How the hell do you expect me to sleep?" Camille said, angry.

  "Every time I shut my eyes all I can see are my babies our babies being blown apart and you want me to sleep? What's wrong with you?"

  "I told you, it's hype," Booker said, louder now.

  "Hype? When someone says they're going to shoot your kids, it's not hype, it's a goddamn threat." Camille's voice broke. She choked back tears.

  "You're letting these people get to you," Booker said.

  "I'll talk with Steve tomorrow."

  Conway, a sick feeling in his stomach, stepped out into the hallway so he could better hear the conversation.

  Camille said, "And what are we supposed to do? Stay inside the house all day and wait?"

  "You can't do that for one day?"

  "I want Steve out of here."

  "And leave him hanging in the wind? That's what you're asking."

  "Baby, I love Steve, but this, this is just too dangerous. Whatever he's mixed up in, we've got nothing to do with it. I'm not going to put our kids' lives on the line I already did that once with John Riley and I'm not " "Camille " "Don't. You weren't there. I came home and there he was passed out on the couch from drugs while Trey and Troy are sitting on the floor screaming because they're hungry and wet." Camille was crying now.

  "Why do you do this? Why do you have to put everything you love on the line? And for what? All those times we caught John Riley getting high, we opened our doors and our hearts for him and what does he do?

  Keeps getting high on coke, keeps getting shit-faced until he almost gets himself killed and who comes in and cleans up the mess? Who picks up the tab for his detox center and pays for the funeral?"

  Booker was quiet.

  "This is my family. Our family, Book. I'm not putting them in danger.

  This isn't just about you. I have a vote in this too."

  Another period of silence followed. All Conway could hear was the beating of his heart.

  "You got anything to say?" Camille asked.

  "Your brother Michael."

  "Don't go there," she replied, defensive.

  "I gave him a job with a good s
alary. I educated him about the business, I even helped pay for his college education." Booker's deep voice was so calm you couldn't tell if he was mad or upset or excited.

  He just kept on talking in that cool tone.

  "And how did your brother repay me? By skimming money from my company for months and racking up credit card debts in my name to the tune of thirty gees because he's in big with gambling, he's got a major league problem no one knew about."

  "Baby " "And when it all hit the fan and your parents were here crying cause they didn't want him to go to jail or to get his legs broken by the dudes coming to collect the guys who threatened to shut off his light permanently, who bailed him out, Camille?"

  "That's different. Michael's family. You stick together with family."

  "Right. So why you asking me to throw Steve Conway to the wolves?"

  Booker's condo was on the corner of Anderson Street in Beacon Hill, the penthouse suite, a sprawling maze of two floors made of hardwood, three fireplaces, a state-of-the-art alarm and surround-sound speaker system, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered sweeping, panoramic views of downtown Boston. Booker's wife, Camille, was busy cooking egg-white omelets in a contemporary kitchen of black granite the size of a small apartment. Booker sat at the head of the breakfast table, drinking coffee as he stared down at the front page of the Boston Globe. It was just after 6:00 A.M. and the air inside the condo was warm and pleasant with the scents of coffee and toast and eggs, the window behind Booker full of the bright hard blue sky of a picture-perfect November morning.

  Conway drank his coffee, his eyes shifting over to the front page of the Globe. AQUARIUM NIGHTMARE was splashed across the front page in bold letters and underneath the title, three fuzzy color photos of an "unknown" man being spit out of the tank. Conway stared at the pictures of himself, his face averted from the camera, and rubbed his palm and fingers over the spiked ends of his freshly cut hair.

  "What do you make of that?" Booker asked, his expression and tone, as always, unreadable.

  "Pretty wild. What are they saying on the news?"

  "You didn't catch it?"

  "I was out most of the day."