World Without End (32 page)

"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 allergies 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.

The time was ripe for their downfall.

Faust's skin tingled. The glass towers seemed to give off a charge, as if the screams of the dead had been sealed inside the glass. He reached out and ran his gloved hand against the glass. To feel it all, to actually connect to the beauty of Hitler's vision of a sanitized world, Faust would have to touch the glass with his bare hand. The thought made him dizzy with anticipation.

Two specialized sterilized wipes were inside his jacket pocket one to clean, one to wipe. He could use one to clean the glass and touch it with his bare hand, and then use the other wipe to disinfect. The small bottle of hand sanitizer he carried with him at all times would destroy any lingering germs.

Faust unwrapped the wipe from its foil container and cleaned off a good section of glass, committing the area to memory, and then carried the infected wipe to the barrel and threw it away. He would burn the gloves later.

He walked back to the same spot and then removed his glove, the cold air washing across his warm, damp skin. Alone inside the memorial, Faust pressed his palm against the glass, closed his eyes and in his mind saw this street in the vivid, singular vision of his brave new world.

The winter sky is the color of blood. The sun has started to set; a light snow is falling over the bodies of the dead, hundreds of them, their twisted, mangled corpses line the streets and steps leading up to Government Center. Some have collapsed against the hoods of their cars or against the steering wheels, others are hunched over restaurant tables, sprawled on the street. Some clutch the cell phones they used to call 911 for help. Their faces are the color of eggplant; blood dribbles from their mouths and noses. They have drowned in their own fluid.

The virus is called Chloe Six, a genetically engineered strain of influenza created in Russia that had, at one point, been designed as a bio weapon against the U.S. It was intended to re-create the 1918 influenza epidemic which, in only a few months, killed more that twenty million people worldwide. Only a few knew of Chloe Six's existence, or its antidote, both of which are stored in the sacred vaults of the Centers for Disease Control.

Faust knows the CDC's layout quite well. For years, he has been preparing for this moment. He knows the security measures and how to bypass them. When he slips outside the CDC and walks through the darkness, he is invisible to the world. He is wearing the military suit. Stored inside a special pack are the Chloe Six specimens and the world's only antidote.

Faust walks down the bloody street, smiling as he breathes in the wonderfully cold air, the snow a pleasant tingle on his scalp. He has nothing to fear. Like Gunther, like all the ones Faust has chosen for his brave new world, he is inoculated, safe from the deadly virus. The dead look up at him, their mouths frozen open in horror; some look away, their hollowed-out eyes pointed toward the heavens. The cellphones and pagers clipped to their belts and clutched in their hands and strewn about the street are still alive, glowing with power and waiting for a command. Nothing will come. The old world now lay dead. A new god has emerged, about to rule a new world.