"You still haven't told me what you're doing for break."
"Working."
"No shit." Like Conway, John Riley is putting himself through college.
School breaks and holidays are not vacations; they are opportunities to earn money.
"What I'm asking is what are you doing for work?"
"Bartendingat The Cliffs."
"Are you flicking serious?"
"I'm serious."
"That bar draws on a good night two people. And that's including the bartender who, I may add, is a dick. That ain't going to cover the bills."
"I'm looking for something to do during the day."
"You find anything yet?"
"I'm looking into a few things."
"You like painting?"
"I'm more into doodling."
"I mean can you paint walls, shithead."
"I like money."
"I'm painting full-time, about ten hours a day, more if I want it. I'm talking some really good coin, time-and-a-half, too. If it goes well, the guy will hire us for the summer."
"Us?"
"That's what I'm saying. We leave tonight."
"What?"
"You can stay with us. I already cleared it with my mom. The apartment's small, you "II have to sleep on the couch, but she's cool with that."
"I appreciate the offer but " "Don't start in with this shit. What are you going to do, stay here and what, spend all your free time thinking?
You think more than Einstein and you're not half as smart."
Conway shook his head, laughing.
"Seriously, you need the money, and the guy I'm working for needs a body. I already told him you'd do it."
John " "Look, this will be a good time. My buddy from home works over in Marblehead at this bar. He'll hook us up with drinks, and these girls I know, they'll be home on break from Emerson. Emerson broads are so notoriously horny, my brother. They're known to fuck guys as ugly and as desperate as you."
"Wow. How can I pass that up?"
"That's what I'm saying. You in or what?"
Conway looks at the stack of books and thinks about the four weeks stretched in front of him. He's eighteen and this will be his first Christmas spent with a real family. Real food too, not that canned crap they served each year at St. Anthony's.
"Okay. I'm in."
"Good," Riley said.
"Just one rule. Don't be spanking your meat puppet in the bathroom.
You don't want my mom to catch you. She'll make you say the rosary and like forty Hail Mary's or something."
"Doesn't the door lock?"
"That's what I thought until two years ago. Brother, she hasn't looked the same at me since. Come on, I'll help you pack."
Conway woke up with a start. The new James Lee Burke hardcover was opened across his lap. He was on the plane, on a direct flight to Boston. He must have dozed off.
The stewardess was suddenly right next to him.
"Can I get you something, sir?" she asked in a bubbly voice.
"Coffee would be great."
Conway sat in the corner seat, next to the window, far away from the other handful of first-class passengers. He had never flown first class before. The leather seats were more comfortable than coach, wider, the leg room generous. He wondered if this was Bouchard's gift to him, an act of kindness to show that Bouchard understood that losing John Riley equaled the loss of a brother.
The stewardess came by with a china cup of coffee and placed it on the tray with two creamers and a small container of sugar. Con way opened one of the creamers and poured it into the cup, watching it swirl inside the black liquid, and in his mind saw a black cloud as thick as ink twisting its way through John Riley's veins, the combination of rat poison and cocaine swallowing blood and tissue, tearing into his heart like a rabid animal.
Did Riley try to fight it? Did he cry out for help? Or was it too late? Had he already crossed that threshold, his body growing still, unable to function, his mind surrendering to the fact that it was too late? What had John Riley's last moments been like?
Bouchard's words from yesterday: "I'm not going to lie to you, Steve. It was an awful way to go.
Conway saw John Riley convulsing on the floor. Saw John Riley crying out in pain, crying out for help. John Riley, his friend, was dying.
Dead.
Because of me.
And now Dixon was held captive, surrounded by jackals feeding off his pain, alone with the knowledge that no one was coming to rescue him.
I won't let you down, Dix. I promise.
Then a voice added, If Angel Eyes thinks you know the code, he'll kill Dixon. Do you know the code, Steve?
Since that night he had met Pasha at Delburn, Conway had thought about Randy's last words: mittens and cat food. What did it mean? Conway had tried to re-create those final moments inside the lab; but the memory was hazy, full of black holes. He kept turning the words over and over in his mind, racking his brain for a solution.
Twenty minutes later and he still had no idea what the words meant.
Don't force it, Steve. It will come.
It had better come soon. Dixon's life was on the line. If Conway could figure out the decryption code, then maybe he could use it as a bargaining chip to save Dixon.
The plane touched down at Logan airport. Outside the window and framed against the hard blue sky of a clear November morning were the skyscrapers of downtown Boston. Conway had come home, and Angel Eyes was somewhere out there, waiting.
Booker was late. Conway sat down in a bank of seats located in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the runway. He draped his arms across the tops of the chairs and waited, back in Boston for the first time in over five years.
The thing about Boston was that nobody seemed to smile. In fact, they all looked pissed. Well-dressed people bustled about the crowded airport, everyone in a rush as they talked on their cell phones, others walking with their heads down, frowning or locked in deep thought, every face having that particular hard, serious gaze, what Conway called "The fuck do you want?" look. Boston was the opposite of Vail or even Austin, where life moved at a much slower pace. People you didn't know would stop to say hi, maybe even ask you how your day was and engage in idle conversation while you were waiting for a bus, all of it done with a smile. Maybe it wasn't sincere, but at least it was cordial.
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 Bonnell, 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.