Chris Mooney - World Without End

Something serious, no more of this bang and scram shit. Riley was thirty-three and tired of running. Time to grow up and be a man. Renee was the director of customer service at the same company where he worked. She was solid and didn't put up with anyone's crap. Beautiful and intelligent and levelheaded women like Renee didn't come around that often. Every day may be a new beginning, but a second chance at starting the life you've always dreamed about was as rare as a true friend. You didn't fuck with it.

Riley's kitchen phone rang. He leaned back, reached behind his head and picked the cordless off the dining-room table.

"Hey babe," Renee Kaufmann said.

"Please tell me you're naked."

"I haven't talked to you in two days and this is the first thing you've got to say to me?" Renee laughed.

"You're so classy."

"So are you naked or not?"

"Yes, John. I bumped into a Victoria's Secret model and right now we're dressed up in lingerie and are bouncing up and down on the bed and having a pillow fight."

"And tickling?"

"Lots of tickling. And butterfly kisses too. We're kissing right now."

Riley pushed his chair back to the armoire. He clicked a few keys and on his computer screen a window popped up. Renee Kaufmann, a phone pressed against her ear, sat in front of her laptop computer at a desk inside her hotel room in Amsterdam. She was attending the company's customer service conference.

"You liar," he said.

Renee's wide, toothy smile made her look like Julia Roberts, only Renee had straight blond hair. Riley's flat-screen monitor showed her in crystal-clear clarity. This technical feat was made possible by a digital broadband line, video-conferencing software and the small black orb the size of a golf ball mounted on top of Riley's monitor the video camera. Renee had a similar one mounted on her laptop. He was testing out this new video-conferencing software for the sales meeting he had in Tahoe next month. Renee's customer-service team would stay in Cambridge and be available to answer customer support questions that might pop up.

"How's the conference going?" he asked.

"Good. You should see this place. There's this church right next door that the hotel bought and fixed up so they could have conferences. It's amazing."

The doorbell rang. Riley ignored it.

"So everything's going well," he said.

"Yeah, everything looks fine."

The doorbell rang again.

"Dammit," Riley said.

"What?"

"Someone's at the door."

"Then go answer it and come back. I'll just sit here and relax."

John stood up. He walked past the kitchen and, out of habit, placed the cordless back on its cradle.

Shit. He had just hung up on Renee and no, wait. The computer microphone headset was already plugged into the computer. He could talk to her on that. Test out how his voice carried over the line.

Riley walked through the living room and opened the front door.

A middle-aged man with gray hair parted razor sharp on the side stood in the hallway, wearing a black cashmere coat over a dark-blue suit and black-leather gloves. His face was drawn; serious.

"Mr. Riley?"

This dude better not be a Jehovah's Witness.

"Yes," John said, annoyed. He wanted to get back to Renee, who he hadn't seen or talked to in the past five days.

"My name is Raymond Bouchard." The man extended his hand. Riley looked at it and said, "I don't mean to be rude, but "

"I need to talk with you about Steve Conway."

That weird phone call last Friday, that was Steve.

Riley felt something in his stomach lining constrict. He invited the man inside and shut the door.

"Are you alone, Mr. Riley?" The dude looked a lot like a stylish James Brolin tall, and had that Roman profile going for him, thick gray hair gelled so it looked wet and spiky.

"Yeah. What's going on with Steve? Is he okay?"

"Bear with me. Please shut the windows and shades in your living room."

Riley shot the guy a strange look.

"I know it's an odd request, Mr. Riley, but this is a highly sensitive matter, and I can't risk having someone overhear this."

A highly sensitive matter. Those words kept echoing inside Riley's mind as he walked into the living room and shut the windows and drew the shades. The room fell silent, cut only by the dry snap and pop of the wood burning inside the fireplace. He turned around and saw the serious look on the man's face, and Riley felt a quickening expanse of air move inside his chest and grow tighter, the way he felt that day when the doc delivered the news about his mom's cancer. The news, Riley knew, wasn't going to be good.

Jesus Christ, Steve, what have you gotten yourself into?

"Can I offer you anything to drink? I don't have any booze, but I have just about any kind of soda you want. And coffee."

"No thank you. Let's take a seat."

The guy was taking charge right away. Riley walked him down the hall and into the living room. He took a seat in the corner of the leather couch, leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees and faced the fire. Bouchard sat across from him in the leather chair. Behind Bouchard was the armoire, the computer screen had gone dark sleep mode.

Rene'e. Shit. Renee was waiting for him; he had forgotten all about her. She'd have to wait a little longer.

"There's been an accident," Bouchard said.

Riley nodded and braced himself.

"A fire. Stephen was caught inside the lab."

Riley's mouth went dry. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before he spoke.

"So Steve is… you're telling me Steve is " "Alive but unconscious.

He almost burned to death."

Riley's mind filled with an image of a burn victim he had seen on those emergency room cable shows. The dude's skin was all red and bloated and peeled back Mother of God. He looked up from the fire and on the mantel saw the picture of himself and Booker and Steve taken on Booker's boat down at Falmouth, about five years ago? Had it been that long? Riley stared at Steve's face but the picture kept going in and out of focus.

"How bad is it?" Riley asked.

"Miraculously, one of the firemen pulled Stephen out just in time. A few more minutes and he would have been dead. He's still unconscious, and I'm told there may be some brain damage. It's just too early to say, Mr. Riley."

"John. Call me John." You're old enough to be my pops, Riley added privately.

Bouchard nodded, reached inside his jacket pocket, and removed a spiral notebook and a Mont Blanc fountain pen. He crossed his legs and got himself settled in the chair.

"I need to ask you some questions, John."

"Sure, anything I can do to help Steve out, ask away. I'm sorry, how do you know Steve?"

"He worked for me."

"You're his boss?"

"You could say that." Bouchard paused, tapped his pen against the notebook. What's with the look? Riley wondered. If it was as if the guy was deciding just how much to tell him. Then Bouchard broke his gaze, reached inside his jacket again, produced a small black tape recorder, and placed it on the coffee table. A green light was on.

Wait. It wasn't a tape recorder at all. It was… Riley didn't know what it was. He leaned forward and studied it.

"It's a jamming unit," Bouchard said.

"A jamming unit," Riley repeated, half-smiling.

Bouchard's face remained serious.

"I can't afford to have this conversation picked up. John, what I'm about to tell you is confidential. This conversation has to stay between you and me. If it doesn't, there could be severe legal ramifications for you. Do you understand?"

I understand that you're starting to give me the fucking creeps. Riley was sweating.

"Sure," he said.

"I understand."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you have a less than stellar background."