Dying Memories (22 page)

Chapter 68

Instead of
G
’s bulletin board, Bill had been brought to the most lurid hardcore porn site he could’ve imagined. Obscene photos and videos cascaded across the screen while Bill tried to figure what had just happened.

“Oh fuck,” Jeremy groaned. He moved closer, studying the flickering images coming across his computer screen, then turned to Bill, his face reddening with outrage. “Those look like teenage girls! What the fuck are you doing? Putting child porn on my computer?”

Bill had been sitting stunned, not quite believing what he was seeing. Jeremy’s reaction knocked him out of his stupor and he closed the browser to get rid of the site. “
G
must be teaching me a lesson for tossing his iPhone. I swear, if you look at this sometime else during the day you’ll see a message from
G
.”

Bill could tell Jeremy didn’t believe a word he said. Worse, his friend was staring at him as if he were mentally ill and dangerous. Bill said, pleading, “Jeremy, fuck, you’ve got to believe me. And we got to get you the fuck out of here. Let me show you
G
’s emails.”

Still holding onto the baseball bat, Jeremy nodded solemnly. “Gather up your shit,” he said. “I’ll go with you to see if you have any emails from this so-called imaginary friend of yours. But here’s the deal. Afterwards I’m working on one of two stories. If this
G
actually exists, then you have a tiny bit of credibility with me and I’ll try to verify more of what you told me and make damn sure that I scoop you with the
Globe
, otherwise I’m writing an exclusive about how a one-time close friend and now mentally unstable killer broke into my apartment and hid out there.”

“Fair enough,” Bill agreed. He slipped on the layers of clothing he’d been wearing, telling Jeremy he’d replace the clothing he borrowed later. Jeremy didn’t bother answering him as he maintained his icy countenance, his manner all but saying that Bill was no longer a friend but a story to exploit. When Bill grabbed Jeremy’s Mets cap he stopped to ask if Jeremy minded.

“Go ahead,” Jeremy said. “I’ll be telling the police you stole it from me.”

Bill nodded and pulled the cap down to try to hide his eyes. After that he gathered up the papers and files he took from Forster’s hedge fund. As he headed towards the door Jeremy told him he was giving Bill a five minute head start so they wouldn’t be seen together. Bill gave him directions to the shed where he had stashed his laptop. They were interrupted by Augustine meowing angrily for attention. Bill sat on his heels for several seconds to rub his thumb under the cat’s chin, and then he was out the door and moving fast down the back staircase and to the alley running alongside the building.

It was early, not even a quarter to seven, and the skies were a slate gray and threatening rain. Bill lowered his head and moved fast towards the shed. A quick look over his shoulder showed Jeremy keeping pace a block away. When Bill reached the abandoned building, he waited until he could see Jeremy turning the corner. After the two of them acknowledged each other with quick nods he headed to the shed. Once inside he waited. Less than three minutes later, there was a rap on the door, then Jeremy joining him. His friend looked out of breath, his skin color off, his mouth unnaturally tight. The stress of the situation was affecting him.

“Let’s see those emails,” Jeremy demanded, his eyes burning with an intensity that offset the harsh paleness of his skin.

Bill moved aside a pile of junk, then pulled up a loose floorboard and found his laptop where he had stashed it. As they waited for the laptop to power on, Bill could see his friend staring anxiously at the screen. He found himself holding his own breath, and had to remind himself to breathe. Finally the computer was on and he brought up his email. While it didn’t actually surprise him, he still felt a sickening thud in his stomach as he saw that his emails from
G
were missing. Jeremy stared at the list of emails intently, searching through them, and as he realized also that the promised emails weren’t there he gave Bill a look as if he knew they never existed but had been hoping that he was somehow wrong.

“They found my laptop,” Bill said hopelessly. “They deleted
G’
s emails from it.”

Jeremy opened the shed door and stepped outside, all the while maintaining a watchful stare at Bill. The cautious way he looked at Bill was as if Bill were some sort of wild animal that you couldn’t risk looking away from or you’d be in danger.

“You can’t go back to your apartment,” Bill told Jeremy. “It won’t be safe there. Please. Watch from outside your building and you’ll see those people I told you showing up at your building.”

Jeremy stood staring at Bill with eyes that were both fearful and sad. He didn’t say anything, instead took several steps backwards and then turned and ran. Bill waited several minutes before leaving the shed; partly from an exhaustion that suddenly came over him, and partly that he didn’t want Jeremy thinking he was chasing after him. While he stood alone inside the shed he first wondered how they found his laptop, and then whether there was any way he could convince Jeremy how dangerous these people were—not so much that his friend would believe his story, but for Jeremy’s own safety. After accepting that there wasn’t a thing he could possibly tell Jeremy that he would believe, Bill called 911 and reported there was a break-in in progress at Jeremy’s apartment address and also telling the police operator that he heard screams for help. At least that would get the police over to Jeremy’s apartment and give his friend a chance. He left the shed, first moving in a slow jog as if wet sandbags were attached to his legs, then picking up the pace knowing that the police could be there any minute.

Chapter 69

Boxer pulled up to the encampment under the overpass where Cyrus McFarland was found with a busted jaw and several broken ribs and other injuries. He didn’t get much out of Cyrus when he visited him at the hospital other than the homeless man working his busted mouth enough to croak out for Boxer to go fuck himself. What made Boxer want to check things further was seeing the watch the hospital orderly had taken off Cyrus. It wasn’t a very expensive watch, but inscribed on the back was ‘W. A. C. Bravo Company 75th’. Bill Conway’s middle name was Andrew, and he was a member of the 75th Ranger Regiment during his time in the service. Conway beating the hell out of the guy wasn’t random, something made him do it, and Boxer wanted to confirm his suspicions on what really happened.

As Boxer sat in his car he counted eight people in the encampment. A check of his watch showed it was ten minutes to seven, and a couple of them were still curled up on the ground, the others were gathering up their possessions. They stopped to watch Boxer as he lumbered out of his car and approached them. The first few people Boxer tried talking to were haggard and tired looking and they ignored him as they maneuvered their way past him. Off to the side was a man with a dopey smile watching Boxer. The man had a worn out grizzled look to him, his eyes hollowed and blackened, almost as if the sockets were coated with soot. When Boxer approached him, the man asked if he was there about the asshole who was beaten up a couple of nights ago.

“You think he’s an asshole?” Boxer asked.

The man scratched along his jaw. Little flecks of dirt or maybe tiny insects came off as he did so. “Pretty much,” he said. “You have to be careful when he’s around. And even then he isn’t very nice. Always telling me to go fuck myself.”

“That’s why he was beaten?” Boxer asked.

The man shook his head. “Nope.” He scratched further around his neck, then showed more of his dopey smile. “But I’ll tell you why for twenty dollars.”

Boxer’s eyes narrowed. “How about I drag your sorry ass down to the station instead?” he asked in a growl.

There was more scratching, then, “How about I see your police badge?”

Boxer smiled thinly and flashed the man his badge, who squinted to read it.

“Says there you’re a Boston police officer,” the man. “Ain’t this Cambridge?”

“Yeah, so what? You need me to, I’ll call one of my Cambridge brothers in blue to drag you to the Central Square station for me.”

The man shrugged, said, “That would be fine with me. Probably get me some coffee down there. Maybe a doughnut or two also. But I won’t say nothin’. At least not without twenty bucks. So it will be a waste of your time. Waste of everybody’s time.”

Gritting his teeth, Boxer took two tens from his wallet and handed it to the man.

“A guy’s gotta earn a living,” the man said with an apologetic smile, showing mostly yellowish-brown teeth. He carefully placed the money into his pants pocket, then explained how Five Can rolled a newcomer, almost bashing the newcomer’s head in with a brick. “The next night newcomer comes back and returns the favor, although I think he wanted to just get his stuff back that was stolen. You can’t blame him for doing more than that. Five Can can be a really irritating asshole.”

“Five can?” Boxer asked.

“That’s cause he’s one can short of a six-pack,” the man said. “Although that’s probably open for debate. My own experience with him, he’s missing more than just than one can.”

That was the way Boxer had figured it played out, which explained why Cyrus was refusing to press charges against his attacker. Although Boxer already knew the answer, he showed the man a photo of Conway, asking whether the man could identify him.

“Yep,” the man said. “That’s the newcomer alright.”

“What was he doing down here?” Boxer asked.

The man shrugged. “I suppose he wanted the twenty dollars.”

“What do you mean he wanted twenty dollars?”

The man’s dopey smile turned sick realizing he had said too much. His eyes darted left and right as if he suddenly remembered where he was and that he needed to see who might be listening in.

“They pay us twenty dollars,” the man said, his voice hushed.

Boxer edged closer. “Who does?” he asked.

“The ones who pick us up,” the man whispered. He tried to turn away, but Boxer grabbed his arm and jerked him back. “Who the fuck picks you up?” Boxer demanded.

Fear showed in the man’s eyes. He shook his head. “I can’t be telling you,” he said as he looked past Boxer for anyone who might be watching. “Last time they warned us about saying anything. Please, let go of me.”

Boxer let go of him. He didn’t need to squeeze it out of him, not yet anyway. The
who
was clearly ViGen. It fit with what Conway had told him about ViGen rounding up homeless for experimentation. And that was why Conway had camped out here. To see firsthand what ViGen was up to.

There were too many things that just didn’t fit, at least with how they were being made to look, and Boxer felt a flush of excitement as he realized Conway’s story might actually have some legs to it. He watched as the man he spoke to trudged off while trying hard to appear nonchalant about it. Boxer made up his mind. One way or the other he was going to get to the bottom of what ViGen was doing.

Chapter 70

Jeremy Brent almost called the police when get he returned back to his apartment. Almost. What stopped him was if he called them it would be hours before he’d be able to do what he needed to, so he decided they could wait and instead took one of his kitchen chairs and jammed it under the entrance doorknob to secure his apartment. He wanted to make sure that in case Bill tried picking the lock again that he wouldn’t be able to get in, ’cause there was no telling what that insane sonofabitch would do. Once that was done Jeremy sat down to write the story of a lifetime. He knew what he had was gold, maybe even Pulitzer Prize worthy. Not only did Bill spend days eluding the police by hiding out in his apartment, but he unloaded to Jeremy all of his paranoid delusions. The guy had to be schizophrenic. It had to be something like that, because Jeremy had little doubt that Bill believed every bizarre thing he told him. He was going to be writing far more than just a
Boston Globe
news story; this was going to be a dissection of a criminally insane mind.

At first he felt remorse over what had happened to Bill, as well as that he was using someone who was a close friend as the subject for this type of story, but those feelings quickly faded. Whatever broke inside of Bill’s brain, it left behind a different person than the one Jeremy used to know. This wasn’t the same guy he palled around with for the last five years, but someone criminally dangerous and delusional, someone who killed two people without even realizing it. Whatever paranoid conspiracy theory Bill concocted in his mind, he was trapped inside of it, even seeing imaginary email messages. Jeremy thought about that last part, wondering how common that type of delusion might be. He would have to call a psychiatrist to find out whether imaginary email messages could be explained by schizophrenia, or whether it pointed to some other form of mental illness.

Augustine at first lay in his lap while he worked on his article. He was so caught up in what he was doing that he didn’t notice when his cat jumped from him and bolted out of the room. There was a tapping sound from outside his apartment, and at some level he noticed it, but he didn’t connect the noise with anything he should be worrying about. It was only when he heard the kitchen chair that he had jammed under the doorknob clatter to the floor that he stopped typing.

Seconds later there was more of that tapping noise. This time he could hear it more clearly and he paid attention to it. Metal hitting metal. Moving tentatively, he left his chair and stepped quietly through his apartment to find out what was making that noise. He stopped when he saw a thin, well-dressed man standing by his front doorway. The kitchen chair he used to barricade his apartment had been pushed aside and lay flat on the hardwood floor. There was more of that tapping noise from outside of the apartment and then the door opened and a much larger man walked in and closed the door behind him. This larger man was also dressed in a suit, although a more ill-fitting and cheaper one than his companion, and he was holding a chisel and hammer. The other man carried a small leather case. Both of them were looking at him with vacant expressions. For the first time since Jeremy had lived in his apartment he realized that the hinges for his front door were on the outside of his apartment. The tapping noise that he had heard was them taking the door off the hinges, then putting the door back in place.

“What the fuck do you think you two are doing…”

Jeremy’s voice died in his throat. It wasn’t so much that he knew instinctively that these two were stone cold killers, or the vaguely malicious smile that had crept onto the smaller man’s lips. That was only part of it. It was mostly the face of that smaller man. How he had the same pointy ears, dot-sized eyes and very pink face of the man in Bill’s story. That was what caused his voice to die on him and a horrible fear to seize him.

Jeremy turned to run, but the fear that gripped him made his legs no better than rubber. The larger man, the one who looked like he should be an offensive lineman in the NFL, ran swiftly enough to keep Jeremy from shutting his bedroom door on them. Jeremy tried to muscle the door closed, but it was a losing battle. For a brief moment it was a standstill, and through the opening he could see the very pink-faced man taking his time as he carefully removed a hypodermic needle from his leather case. But the larger man had only been toying with him and as the door started to close it reversed direction and slammed him hard in the face, sending Jeremy stumbling backwards, his feet slipping out beneath him, and then he was crashing to the floor. He wanted to scream but before he could a knee crushed his chest and a large thick hand that smelled of onions covered his mouth. In his peripheral vision he saw the other man, Simon, approaching, a look of amusement spreading his face. Jeremy’s eyes locked in on the hypodermic needle that this man brandished, and his fear became something palpable then, something he could almost taste in the back of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut as he waited. Minutes seemed to pass by. He could barely stand it. He heard Simon as he walked around his apartment opening and closing closet doors as if he were searching for something. Then Simon walked back into the bedroom. Even without hearing those footsteps Jeremy would have felt his presence close by. When he heard a
tsk-tsk
noise, he opened his eyes and saw Simon sitting at his computer reading the story Jeremy had been working on.

“It’s a shame,” Simon told Jeremy. “If only I knew you were writing this… but the problem is we didn’t expect you here, rather someone else… ah, well, what’s done is done.”

Shaking his head he left the computer to kneel by Jeremy. His hypodermic needle was held up briefly to the light as he studied the liquid inside of it. He didn’t bother rolling up Jeremy’s sleeve to disinfect an area along the arm or shoulder. Instead he found a spot behind Jeremy’s ear for the needle.

The larger man’s hand covered Jeremy’s mouth and muffled his screams.