World Without End (39 page)

"It's not what you think, Stephen. I'mm trying to stop it from happening again," Angel Eyes says, his back covered in steam and shadows.

Overhead, the once blue sky is now roiling with dark clouds the color of ink. The streets turn dark; it starts to snow. Then a shot rings out.

Car doors fly open and the drivers and occupants flee in terror, everyone running up stairs and bolting down streets to the building doors that offer safety. Conway doesn't see the shooter but he sees something more disturbing. Dozens of white wolves have appeared on the streets and steps leading up to Government Center. They emerge from the grass and bushes that surround the memorial, their jaws are open, their breaths steaming in the air, their blue eyes locked in a predatory stare on a man who lies twisting with pain on his back in the middle of the road.

It's Randy Scott.

He turns his head and his frightened eyes lock on Conway. Randy reaches out for help, his fingers trembling and dripping red. The wolves sniff the air, their eyes growing wide as they lock on the scent of the blood.

Conway steps off the grate and makes a move up the slope when Angel Eyes calls out to him.

"It'sa trap, Stephen."

"If I don't help Randy, he'll die."

"He's dead already."

"I don't believe you."

"You have no reason not to believe me. Why do you willingly trust Raymond?"

Conway doesn't have an answer ready.

"What frightens you more, Stephen? Discovering the truth about Raymond, or shattering your inner world?"

Angel Eyes speaks with a cunning superiority, the words burrowing past Conway's skin and scaling his protective walls and barriers and then settling deep in those vulnerable, private places he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

"You're so eager to impress, so eager to be accepted and valued in this slick den of thieves that you're blind to the jackals that surround you. Like Dixon and Randy, you're a means to an end. You're disposable. I bet that thought keeps the engine running long into the night."

Randy cries out for help. Conway moves up the slope. The wolves start to advance. Angel Eyes speaks to him one last time.

"You live in a wilderness of mirrors, Stephen. Jackals surround you.

The choice is yours. I'm not going to warn you again."

Conway runs out into the street. Dozens of glowing, predatory blue eyes bore down on him. Randy is on his back; his trembling hands are working to try to keep the blood from leaving the gunshot wound in his stomach.

"Hang on, Randy. I'll call for help." it But Randy isn't listening. His gaze is still, focused, what people call the thousand-yard stare. The wolves are approaching them.

"Mittens," Randy says.

"Cat food."

"You're not making any sense."

Randy twists his head to Conway.

"My cat's breath smells like cat food," he says.

"My cat's name is Mittens. My cat's breath smells like cat food. My cat's name is mittens. Who said that, Steve?"

"You're delirious."

"You know me, Steve. You know what I like to watch?"

"TV. Spans."

"And cartoons."

It's like watching a hidden object rise from the depths of the ocean and break the surface. It's all clear now. It makes sense.

"The Simpsons," Conway says.

"Right. Ralph Wiggim, remember him? The little retard who runs around saying those stupid things that make me laugh so hard I come close to pissing myself? I tried to tell you the code inside the lab in a way so they wouldn't figure it out. Only you're not a good listener, Steve. You never were. You can't even see what's happening around you."

Randy's hand comes up with a Clock. He presses it against Conway's head, and when Randy smiles, his teeth are yellow and crooked, his breath packed with the overpowering stench of nicotine.

"Nobody's going to save your ass this time," Randy says, but it's Armand's voice, and he fires a round into Conway's head.

Conway woke up in a tangle of sheets. His chest and head were drenched with sweat, and his heart was pounding so hard and fast that he felt dizzy. He wiped his face, slid his feet over the bed and placed them on the cold hardwood floor. He was inside one of the spare bedrooms in Booker's penthouse condo in Beacon Hill. Con-way had gone back to the hotel, packed his stuff, and come directly here, wanting to stick close to his friend.

The dream is a warning. They took Renee and they'll try to take Booker.

Or worse, try to hurt someone from Book's family.

A floor-to-ceiling window faced him. Outside, the first snowstorm of the season was in full force. Boston's downtown cluster of buildings glowed with squares of white and yellow light. Behind the bedroom door, Booker and his family were fast asleep.

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.