World Without End

by Chris Mooney

  "You give up Dixon and Kaufmann and I promise not to turn you into a human candlestick," Conway said.

  "That's the deal."

  "What about the suit?"

  "I don't give a flying fuck about the suit."

  "And what about Raymond? Do you give a flying fuck about him?"

  "Bouchard will get what's coming to him."

  "He'll snake his way out of it. I've seen him do it dozens of times."

  "Not this time."

  "Raymond Bouchard's a powerful man." Cole said.

  "He has a powerful agency at his disposal. As long as he's alive, you'll never be safe."

  "Last time: Where are you hiding Dixon and Kaufmann?"

  "You're not the only one in this room who's been betrayed. I know what Raymond had planned for me. I think I have a right to justice.

  Instead, you've got me tied up here, threatening me with torture. You kill me, you'll be killing an innocent man."

  "Stop pretending you're a cherry. I know what you do for a living."

  "I've got nothing to do with what happened to you in Austin, or what happened to your friend. If you watched the video, then you know that."

  "Renee Kaufman. Where is she?"

  "She's dead."

  Conway felt something hot and sharp pierce his stomach.

  "Raymond Bouchard tortured Renee Kaufmann for information on you and the location of the CD, and she wouldn't speak," Cole said.

  "Then he cut her into bits."

  Over Cole's shoulder, Conway saw the Elf's eyes pop up in surprise before they dropped back down to the floor.

  Cole's lying.

  "Bouchard's moved Dixon," Cole said.

  "Now that you know the code, Dixon's going to get turned into fertilizer. I can help you, Steve. I can help you save Dixon. I know where Raymond is staying. You let me out of here, I'll take you to him. You can bring your friends along too, if you don't trust me. You want to save Dixon, then you have to release me. That's the deal. It's not up for negotiation."

  Conway picked up the gas tank, stormed over to the Elf and started dumping gas on him, the stocky, furry animal twisting against his restraints, screaming behind the tape. The gas fumes were overpowering. If Conway lit a match now, the whole room would blow.

  The can empty, Conway tossed it aside, hearing it bounce against the floor, and opened the window behind the Elf. The cold winter air rushed inside, clearing the the room of fumes, making it easier to breathe. Conway removed the box of matches, took out a match, and then ripped off the piece of tape from the Elf's mouth. He held the unlit match front of the Elf's face.

  "The flames will eat away at the tape and rope, but by the time you're free, you'll be permanently disfigured," Conway said, his anger separating each word.

  "You want to spend the rest of your life in a burn unit? Or you want to walk out of here in one piece?"

  "Torturing is the business of cowards, Stephen," Cole said.

  Conway's eyes and attention remained focused on the Elf. He said, "You don't answer my question, I'll turn you into a human candle."

  The Elf's eyes kept bouncing from the match to Cole.

  "Your choice," Conway said and then lit the match.

  The Elf jumped as if shocked, his mouth open in horror. His beaten, bloody face glowed in the flame's soft yellow and orange light. Conway moved the match closer.

  "Jesus Christ, okay, don't fucking do it!" the Elf screamed.

  Conway recognized the voice and froze.

  "Keith Harring," he said.

  "That's correct," Cole said.

  "Mr. Alves played the part of Keith Harring to lure you inside Praxis to have you killed. The man you met inside the lab was Misha. You were supposed to die in the fire, Stephen. They were supposed to blame the whole episode on you and your colleague, Randy Scott. That's why Misha had you shoot him. Raymond Bouchard wanted everyone wiped out, only you survived."

  "Fucking listen to me!" the Elf screamed.

  "Cole is the one who tortured the girl and chopped her up and bit off Owen Lee's ear. I fucking saw it!"

  "You wouldn't be lying to me, would you?" Conway asked and moved the flame closer.

  "Jesus Fucking Christ, get that away! The Elf stopped and then sucked in air. He looked like was on the verge of tears.

  "Dude, I'm begging you, man, please."

  "My Palm Pilot is equipped with a transmitter, right?"

  "And a bug, yeah, we can listen in on you." The Elf's eyes were locked on the flame slowly burning its way through the long wooden matchstick.

  "Where's the surveillance van now?"

  "Downstairs, all fucked up. Nobody else can track you, I swear."

  "Where's Dixon?"

  "If I give you the address you've got to let me go."

  "This match is starting to get hot. I don't know how long I can hold it."

  "Cole's men are coming for you, right now," the Elf stammered. He swallowed and stammered again.

  "They'll come in here, they'll kill me, you, all of us, don't you fucking get it?"

  This guy tried to kill you. You almost burned to death inside the lab.

  Throw the match and let him burn.

  "Where's Dixon?" Conway said and moved the flame closer to the Elf's gasoline-soaked lap, ready to turn him into a candle. Let them all burn.

  "Lynn, 21 Park Street, yellow house on the corner!" the Elf screamed.

  Cole, very calm, said, "I wouldn't believe a word the man says. He's a professional liar, one of Bouchard's herd."

  Conway said, "How many men guarding the house."

  "Last count, five," the Elf said.

  "Alarm system?"

  "Code's nineteen thirteen. Keypad's inside the front door. Dixon's in the basement. The broad's clothes are still there. You'll see what happened. Mary, Mother of God, I'm telling you the truth. Take me there, leave me bound up, I don't care, just don't fucking burn me and don't leave me here! He's bit Lee's ear and tore it off blow the match out! BLOW IT OUT!!!"

  Conway blew out the flame. Coming from outside, he heard a slightly muted sound, thump-thump-thump.

  Booker's voice, loud and urgent, burst over on Conway's ear piece: "I can't believe what I'm seeing. A goddamn Blackhawk helicopter just materialized out of thin air, two buildings down. It's hovering right above the roof."

  The stolen Blackhaivk helicopter with the optical camouflage.

  Angel Eyes was here.

  "I'm watching men rappelling onto the roof three, I'm counting three men, and they're dressed in close-quarter combat gear," Booker said.

  "Same dudes from earlier, armed with the laser rifles. The chopper's moving to another roof. You got what you need?"

  "Most of it."

  "My chopper's already on its way. They'll be there in five. Get your ass to the roof."

  Outside, car engines raced. Men shouted orders. Car doors slammed.

  Automatic gunfire erupted on the dark street.

  The guy Booker had posted outside the apartment door opened it, poked his bandanna-covered head inside and with a mouthful of gold teeth said, "Let's move."

  Conway blew out the match. He stood up and refastened the strip of tape across the Elfs mouth. Conway checked his watch. A few minutes before six.

  "You'll never make it out of here alive," Cole said.

  "Tell that to Angel Eyes. He's on his way to see you," Conway said, and turned toward the door. Before he ran out of the room, he dropped the small box of matches on the floor, fully aware of what he was doing. Conway headed up the dark stairwell, smiling in the darkness at the sick pleasure that had lined his heart.

  Raymond Bouchard was back in the shower, back to thinking in his favorite place, tucked alone in this womb of steam and hot water. He didn't know why, but he was thinking about his father.

  No, that wasn't exactly true. In times of stress, when all the walls seemed to be closing in and hope about to run out, Raymond often thought about his father, wondering what new direction the man's li
fe would have taken if he had just made the simple decision to hang on, to just press forward through the temporary stretch of blackness and emerge on the other side, stronger.

  Inside the shower, as he worked the white soap into a lather, he saw himself that day as he walked up the steps, on his way to his room. His parents' door was open just a crack, but it was enough for him to see the bright, angry splatter of blood that fanned up the white wall and marred the group of wedding and family pictures with a series of angry, wet lashes, like razor cuts. Raymond remembered his vision locking on one picture, his parents grouped around him after a Little League game, his smiling face the only one spared by the blood, an omen as if to say, You will be the only one to survive this.

  Which was true. His mother didn't last much longer. Ten years later, she got cancer and decided to cash in her chips and forgo the chemotherapy. Raymond paid for the funeral but didn't attend it.

  He was never one to indulge in the why of life. He preferred to deal in reality. He could shape it, control it, change its history to suit his needs. People and problems could be sold and purchased, molded or destroyed or made to disappear, depending on what was needed.

  What was needed here was confidence. He had been in numerous precarious situations and had survived them. This time would be no different. This wasn't a mess, it was a situation nothing more than a series of minor setbacks. Break them down into small, digestible units, and the larger problem could be contained and managed like radioactive spills.

  First, use Stephen to draw out Pasha. She had to be close, watching him. Bring them both in, find out what they know, then remove them both from the equation, permanently. Same with Conway's friend, Booker. Plant the evidence and stories and erase any trail that led back to himself. Problem solved.

  And what about Misha's boss, Alexi?

  Blame the whole situation on Angel Eyes. Tell Alexi that Angel Eyes killed Misha and stole the military suit.

  Angel Eyes was trickier. The man had stepped out of the shadows and had, for reasons that still perplexed Raymond, taken an active interest in Conway. Hopefully he would draw Angel Eyes out and then Cole, forever thrilled with the hunt, would take the mysterious figure out of the game.

  Sounds great, Raymond, but the only problem is that Angel Eyes is proving himself to be a powerful adversary.

  But the man wasn't made of vapor. He was human, and he was here in Boston. And, like Pasha, the man would protect Stephen.

  Angel Eyes is proving to be elusive.

  So far. The point was, he was a man and all men bleed. One good shot and he'd be out of the picture. Cole, Owen Lee someone would kill him.

  Satisfied that this situation, which would have overwhelmed his mental weakling of a father, was now clearly labeled and defined, Raymond Bouchard shut the water off, pulled the curtain back, and then stepped into the bathroom of sand-colored tile. The door was cracked open; most of the steam had cleared. He toweled himself off in front of the mirror, studying himself at different angles, all of which left him feeling satisfied. He tossed the towel onto the floor and put on the white terrycloth Four Seasons robe, and walked out into the grand bedroom decorated with French walnut furniture.

  The window offered a view of the park. It was dark now and the city had come to life. From the sixth floor he watched the people milling about Charles and Boylston streets. He spied a young couple making out right below him. The man's hand was under her coat and grabbing her tits Raymond smiled at the word, and smiled even more when the man's hands cupped the woman's ass displayed so finely in a pair of black leather pants. Raymond continued to stare, invisible, like God.

  If you had the suit, you could be invisible.

  Raymond looked up, startled, and saw his reflection in the mirror.

  The suit's your size; you could fit into it without a problem. If you had the decryption code, you could use the suit whenever you wanted.

  You've studied the design, you know how it works.

  "I could kill Alexi," Raymond mumbled to himself.

  "Get him out of the way."

  And Angel Eyes.

  That's right. He could follow Stephen himself, and when Angel Eyes stepped into the picture, the son of a bitch wouldn't even see the shot coming.

  The truth is, if you had that suit, you could get rid of anyone. And if this suddenly turned sour Pm not saying it will, but if it did, you could climb inside that suit and nobody would be able to find you.

  The thing was, he did have the suit. It was, what, half an hour's drive from here? Kill the men he had guarding the suit and then steal it blame it all on the mysterious Angel Eyes. Then bring in Conway and have him fork over the decryption code.

  Raymond took off his robe and dressed quickly. He was hovering over his suitcase, packing, when his cell phone rang. Probably Cole calling to tell me he's got Conway. Raymond picked up the phone from his briefcase, anxious to hear the good news.

  "Give it to me."

  "I don't like you using my name, Raymond."

  The calm voice had a cold, mechanical quality to it, and sounded slightly British as if a robotic Patrick Stewart were on the phone.

  "Who is this?" Raymond demanded.

  "The man you're pinning all your sins on."

  Raymond Bouchard straightened up.

  "The whole world is watching your star performance on television,"

  Angel Eyes said.

  Star performance? What the hell is he talking about?

  The TV was housed in the walnut armoire and turned off, but the cable box was on, already turned on to Channel Five.

  "Go ahead and take a look, Raymond. I have forever."

  Raymond stepped forward, reached out and turned on the TV A hum as the screen came to life and then Raymond saw himself standing over John Riley's dead body.

  In his mind's eye Raymond saw Owen Lee sitting in the back of the surveillance van the night Riley was killed, Owen holding up the black, golf-balled sized device with the camera lens. It's a Web cam____________________ We found it inside the armoire, mounted on top of the computer monitor…

  Riley's girlfriend… she saw the entire thing… it's possible she recorded us.

  Angel Eyes said, "How does it feel to be the center of national attention?"

  Raymond pressed the UP button on the cable box. Next channel, there he was, talking to Owen Lee about planting the drugs in the apartment to make it look like an OD. Next channel, Owen talked about killing Misha. About killing Cole.

  "I thought about calling the police, and then I remembered the skills of your friend Mr. Cole, the one you set up to get killed," Angel Eyes said.

  "Mr. Cole's on his way to see you. Bon appetit, Raymond."

  Raymond Bouchard didn't see the floor or the wonderful room, all he could see behind his eyes, branded, was the picture that everyone all over the country, maybe even the world, had just seen: the image of himself standing over John Riley's dead body. It was like… it was like he had stepped sideways into another dimension, back in time to that day from his childhood when he had come home and discovered the two moving vans parked in the driveway. Right now, he felt the way his mother must have that day, useless, powerless against the men who were removing their lives.

  Just a few minutes ago, everything had been under control. And now… and now… That inner voice came on, it was very cool, very collected, and Raymond listened to it: You've got your gun. Grab your suitcase, drive to Lynn, and get the suit before Cole gets here.

  Inside the elevator, Raymond put on his sunglasses and pushed his damp hair down across his scalp, giving him a George Clooney kind of hairdo.

  The elevator doors chimed open. Take it easy. Act normal. Remember who you are.

  The suitcase strap slung over his shoulder, Raymond moved into the lobby and then walked toward the front entrance, taking his time and staring straight ahead as people whisked past him. Casually, he moved out the doors and stepped into the cold night air. A young black man dressed in the cap and white glo
ves of proper valet attire stared at him for a moment.

  It's the sunglasses. You're wearing them at night, guy probably thinks you're a celebrity. Just relax and smile, act casual.

  "Good evening, sir."

  "I just need my car," Raymond said. His voice sounded confident, firm.

  "It's a black Dodge Durango." He gave the man the license plate number and watched as the valet nodded and then disappeared.

  From behind his black lenses, Raymond watched the faces of the people who walked in and out of the hotel. He didn't see Cole. But Cole was an expert at disguising himself. It would be hard to find him if he was Sirens. Raymond heard sirens.

  The noise grew louder. Police? Ambulance? Fire? His muscles tensed, ready to run. But where? Where was he going to run to? His car pulled up to the front. Raymond tipped the man and got in. Three police cruisers whizzed by the hotel in a wail of sirens and then disappeared, taking his panic with them.

  It wasn't until he was out of the city, traveling on Route One North, passing through the city of Saugus, that he felt himself start to relax. He was inside the car, alone; nobody knew where he was. He was safe; protected. Once he had the suit, he would be invisible.

  Inside his pocket, his cell phone rang. He ignored it and drove faster.

  Both sides of the highway were filled with brightly lit strip malls, gas stations, and retail stores. He had turned the radio to the twenty-four-hour news station, the AM channel, WBZ, and listened for a breaking news report. Fifteen minutes and no news about what he had just witnessed on TV Wait. Was it a trick?

  Get the suit.

  Raymond turned off the highway and onto 144 East, the route that would take him straight into Lynn. He heard a hissing sound.

  He turned off the radio. The noise was faint but was definitely coming from inside the car. What the hell is that? He shut off the heat. The hissing was still there. He couldn't smell anything.

  A press of the button and the interior light turned on. Raymond looked around as he drove. Nothing on the floor, and it sounded like it was coming from under his seat. He reached under and instantly felt something hard, something made of metal, and pulled it out and examined it in the small strip of light.