Chris Mooney - World Without End

Conivay takes a step closer and feels the air drop dramatically, bone-chilling now, and laced with an electrical charge that makes his muscles tremble with anticipation. He can feel the power radiating off the man's skin. A well-contained storm, violence that, once unleashed, knew no match. Con-way had felt this power only twice in his life. The first time was while watching his kenpo karate instructor break through five wood boards with a single kick; the second time was in college, at a keg party after a football game where three steroid-induced douche bags who loved to fight decided to take on Booker. Conway watched Book toss them aside as if they were made of paper, watched his meaty fists shaped like blocks of concrete send his opponents crumbling to their knees in painful tremors.

Only this power is different. It is stronger, darker, and more terrifying, the kind of breathing entity that once forced adults and children to march into the sealed chambers with showers that filled with gas and screams and cries to God for mercy and forgiveness.

"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."