Chris Mooney - World Without End

"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?"