Chris Mooney - World Without End

"The equipment's all set up. You'll be able to watch everything in your office," Gunther said.

"I'll call you when we're ready to move."

"Gunther?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

"You worry too much."

"You can't replace the things you love deeply."

"I'll be careful," Gunther said and hung up.

Faust's mouth was still tingling from the special mouthwash he used to neutralize any lingering bacteria. He slid his tongue across the smooth texture of his upper lip and looked out the window. To pass the time, he imagined Raymond Bouchard lying crumpled at his feet, naked and trembling as he begged for his life, terrified to turn around and stare down at the yawning valley of bones.

Major Dixon was throwing up again. This time he was doing it outside, around the corner of the Snack Shack so the skydiving instructors wouldn't see him. His painfully thin body was hunched forward, one hand splayed against the chipped blue paint, the other fiercely gripping the rim of a stainless-steel water bubbler. His sweating face turned an unnatural shade of deep crimson as he hurled more undigested remnants of his breakfast against the ground and sprinkled his sneakers and the yellow pant legs of his jumper's suit.

"A minute," Dixon wheezed when he stopped gagging. His nasal voice was pure Texas and had a slight, high-pitched whine to it.

"Just give me a minute and I'll be fine, I promise."

Conway didn't say a word, just drank his coffee, his fourth cup. He was awake now, wired; behind it, he could feel his anger building, the way a car slowly warms up on a frigid New England winter morning.

He had tried talking Dix out of this skydiving nonsense at breakfast, but Dix didn't want to hear it. They were going today. End of discussion.

Very unlike Dixon.

Conway looked across the wide, sprawling burnt-green field. An hour and a half drive out of Austin, and now they were standing in some town that didn't deserve to have a name. The skydiving school and the Snack Shack were the only signs of civilization on the lonely stretch of highway. As Conway looked around his remote setting, the air hot and smelling of baked dirt and dead grass, he was gripped with an overwhelming feeling of isolation. Somewhere beyond that deep, hard blue sky a satellite was locked on them, watching and listening.

Come on, Pasha, call and tell me what the heirs going on.

"You were right, I shouldn't have had that big breakfast," Dixon said, and then straightened up, slowly. He took a mouthful of water, gargled and spit. When he was done, he placed his head in the bubbler. Cold water sluiced off his face and hair.

At five foot six, Dixon was a good six inches shorter than Con-way, and had a shallow chest with thin arms and legs that carried no muscle tone the kind of body more suited to a twelve-year-old boy than a thirty-two-year-old computer genius. His eyes were set deep in his skull and close together and wide, giving him a look of perpetual wonder. The cheerful demeanor he projected to the outside world masked the sadness of a man who realized he was invisible through no fault of his own.

Dixon used his sleeve to wipe down his face. He had become a pro at blowing his lunch. Conway had seen the surveillance tapes of Dixon throwing up at the office, at his condo Conway even knew about the most recent development, the blood. Dix had an ulcer.

Which made the job of trying to keep him sedated next to impossible.

Dix had suffered from panic attacks for a good part of his adult life, but it was only over the last few weeks, as today's meeting date drew closer, that the attacks intensified, becoming a daily occurrence that seemed to be inching him closer to having a nervous breakdown. Dixon usually kept it together at work, where his mind was focused on some bit of code or technical problem, but later, when he went home alone to his small condo, some disturbing word or image would worm its way into his mind and disrupt the normal, rational flow of his thoughts. He would stare off into space at an adversary only he could see, and within a matter of minutes his entire body would shake with fear, the alien voice that had taken over his mind convincing him that he was worthless and stupid that was why he had never had a girlfriend, why everyone laughed at him and made fun of him behind his back, and why his whole life would come apart at the seams the day he handed over the compact disc at the airport. He would be arrested and sentenced to a life in prison, being gang-raped in showers. The panic attacks only lasted several minutes, but the irrational thoughts lingered in his mind for hours. Conway had witnessed it firsthand.

Dixon's therapist wanted to put him on the antianxiety drug Paxil. Dix refused. Meds were for sickos, the sort of thing a loser used to keep it together. Besides, he did not have a problem. It was stress, that's all, nothing to worry about, it would all pass. He was in total control and had everything together.

Dixon removed his glasses from his pocket, put them on, and looked over at the Cessna parked on the runway. The oval lenses magnified the nervous intensity of his small, birdlike eyes.

"You throw up your first time?" he asked.

"No, but I thought I would." Conway saw an opening and tried again.

"Dix, if you're throwing up now, you'll do it again once we're in the plane."

"I'll be fine."

"A guy with a stomach condition shouldn't be going skydiving."

"A stomach condition?" Dixon snorted.

"I don't have a stomach condition, I just ate too much food, that's all. Indigestion and a little stress. No big deal."

"I've seen the empty bottles of Maalox, Dix."

Dixon's face tightened.

"I know about all those trips to the bathroom, I've smelled the mouthwash. You've been throwing up for weeks now."

Dixon scratched the corner of his eye, his tongue working the back of his molars.

"You saying I can't pull this off?"

"I'm not saying that," Conway said, choosing his tone and words with care.

"What I am saying is on the biggest day of your life, you don't suddenly decide to do something as risky as skydiving without a specific reason."

"You didn't have one."

"What are you talking about?"

"On the morning of your twenty-first birthday, your friend John Riley picked you up and didn't tell you where you were going. He just pulled right into the skydiving school. You had no idea."

Conway didn't remember telling Dix the story.

"Don't you remember? Last year, when Riley was in town, he told " "Why do you have to do this today?" Conway asked, again.

Dix rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb, his eyes focused on the runway where the pilot was loading gear into the plane.

"I'm your friend," Conway said.

"You can trust me."

"Your first time out? You told me when you jumped it was the most exhilarating experience you ever had. That when your feet hit the ground you felt like you were painted with magic, all confident, like you had the world by the balls." Dixon's gaze dropped to the ground, but he wouldn't look over at Conway.

"I never felt that way in my entire life."

Conway had his words ready. Don't. Let him have his moment or you'll push him away. He drank his coffee and waited.

"That's how I want to feel today," Dixon said.

"I want to jump out of that plane and shed my old skin."

"Then let's go tomorrow. Let's go to a bar and relax, and then we'll go to the airport and " "No," Dixon said. Something in Dixon's face changed.

"It has to be today."

Again with the urgency. Why?

"Dix, if something happens to you in the air and you can't make it to the airport, you can't call up our man and ask him to reschedule."

Conway could feel the anger creeping into his voice and didn't care.

"The deal will be off and then where will we be?"