Dying Memories (20 page)

Chapter 62

Bill kept the lights off within the safehouse. Even in the shadowy darkness he could tell the inside was in better condition than the outside. It was small, and set up as a studio apartment with a single room furnished only by a card table, chairs, a small desk with a desktop computer and a futon bed, and a galley kitchen off to the side. Bill checked the refrigerator and found it was stocked with food. He took out a carton of eggs, milk, butter and a deli package of sliced ham, started a pot of coffee brewing, then found a skillet in a pan drawer and started cooking up scrambled eggs, mixing into it pieces of ham.

When the eggs were done, he spooned the food onto a plate, poured a large mug of coffee, and brought it over to the card table. While he ate he turned on the iPhone
G
had given him. The website name added to it wasn’t anything cute like the username he was assigned; instead it looked like a random string of numbers and letters making it unlikely that anyone would stumble upon it. Bill logged in and saw he already had a message waiting from
G
that gave him the location of a nearby older model Ford Escort that he should be able to steal if he so desired. A car would be useful, but he wasn’t going to be stealing that one. He didn’t want
G
being able to keep track of him, and he knew that car would have a tracking device hidden inside it, and probably more than that. He wasn’t going to stay at their safehouse either. Or keep their iPhone, which Bill was sure had also been tampered with.

He sat for several minutes trying first to clear his head, then repeating to himself the long string of letters and numbers that made up the web-site name until he was sure he had it committed to memory. Before putting the phone away he made a call that had been on his mind for several hours, calling the Cambridge police department to report the location of the homeless man that he had beat up. When they asked for his name, he disconnected the call. After that he cleaned up the dishes and pan that he used, as well as the coffee pot. He found a matchbook in a drawer, and jammed one of the matches in the space between the top of the door and frame. With that done he left the house through a back window, first cutting through several backyards and an alleyway before finding a rusted-out Chevy Nova. He used a rock to break the back window, then unlocked the driver’s side door. The car had to be at least twenty years old, and he left the iPhone by the curb next to it figuring that value-wise it was a fair trade. If the iPhone had been tampered with as he expected,
G
and his people would think he was still roaming around Chelsea.

Bill knew
G
gave him the burglar picks for more than just breaking into the safehouse; there would be more houses that
G
would want him to get into. For the time being the tools came in handy for pulling out the Chevy Nova’s ignition wires, and within a minute he had the engine running. Grim-faced, his body aching, he first drove to where
G
had told him that the Ford Escort would be so he could swap license plates since he was guessing that
G
had left the car for him to steal and there was little chance the police would be notified about it. After making the swap he headed back to Charlestown.

Chapter 63

It was almost six o’clock when Bill pulled his stolen car into an alleyway several blocks from Jeremy’s apartment, and after leaving the car he headed off on foot. Another bleak, overcast day, with the chill from the damp air cutting right through him. He squinted through the murky grayness as he walked in an awkward gait, his leg muscles too stiff to move naturally. Physically battered, he felt awful with just about every muscle and joint aching. Once inside Jeremy’s apartment, he went straight to the bathroom where he rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found some remaining pills from a prescription of heavy duty painkillers. He swallowed a couple of these and made his way to the bedroom where he wrote down the seemingly random string of characters making up
G’
s web-site name so he wouldn’t forget it later, then dropped onto the bed. He fell into a dead sleep only seconds after hitting the mattress.

With a start, he woke up, badly disoriented. A loud, angry meowing came from outside the bedroom door, and a key was being turned in the outside door lock. He froze as he remembered where he was and realized the source of the meowing. If Augustine kept it up he would be leading Jeremy’s neighbor, Kate, into the bedroom. The next thing he heard was the light patter of Augustine running along the hardwood floor, then Kate admonishing the cat for being in such a sour mood.

“For goodness sake, what a sour puss! You’d think I was starving you to death with the racket you’re making,” she said.

Bill heard her voice trailing off as she continued to scold Augustine in a comically stern voice, and guessed she was heading to the kitchen. It was several minutes later when he heard the front door open and close, then Augustine again meowing angrily outside the bedroom door. Bill got up and let his little buddy into the bedroom, not wanting the meowing to attract any more attention. Augustine jumped on the bed with him, and Bill was out again shortly after closing his eyes.

It was mostly an unconscious sleep with the exhaustion from the last few days catching up to him, and it was only before waking that he dreamt. In his dream he was chasing Emily through the streets of Boston. She was terrified as she ran from him. Every time she’d look back her eyes would be liquid with fear. But he kept running after her, desperate to explain that none of the stories about him were true. Near the end, right before waking, she fell to the ground sobbing, too scared to move.

Bill stood over her, his heart pounded erratically in his chest. “It’s not true,” he told her when he could find his voice. “None of it is. Emily, please, you have to believe me. You didn’t see what you thought you did. It was only because of what they injected you with.”

She looked up at him, her face rigid in its fear. “Look at you,” she gasped. “Look at what you’re holding!”

He looked down at himself and saw that he was covered in blood and gore and was holding a butcher knife that dripped red. He wanted to explain how this wasn’t real either, but he couldn’t figure out how.

Bill woke up then, an intense loneliness overwhelming him and a terrible hollowness inside his chest. Augustine lay on his side next to him, one eye opened wide as the cat carefully watched him. He absently rubbed Augustine’s belly, which caused the cat to stretch his legs. Bill was surprised when he looked at the clock alongside the bed and saw it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon. He’d been out for almost eight hours. Fuck. There was a lot he needed to do and the day was already slipping by.

Bill moved slowly off the bed, not quite as stiff as he was the night before. After retrieving his cell phone he moved over to Jeremy’s computer. He found a web-site that provided a reverse phone directory service and used it to discover names and addresses for five of the numbers that had been in Henry Schlow’s cell phone. The other numbers were probably for cell phones, and he would try those later at a payphone and see if he could match them to names. He was tempted to log onto
G
’s web-site to check whether there were any messages for him, but he couldn’t risk them being able to trace him back to Jeremy’s apartment. The longer they thought he was in Chelsea, the better. Maybe for the moment
G
was on his side, but there was no telling when that would change.

Bill needed to clean up. He wasn’t going to be playing a street person that night. He took a quick shower and splashed on enough of Jeremy’s cologne to hide any lingering smell. He wished he could’ve shaved but Jeremy had taken his razor with him. He did find some mouthwash to gargle with, and after that he rummaged through Jeremy’s closet for appropriate clothing. What he picked out was loose on him, but would do the trick. He heard two women talking in the hallway and waited until their voices faded before leaving.

Chapter 64

Bill walked into the lobby at One Post Office Square carrying a package that he had picked up from another building’s lobby. He nodded to the security guard, telling him that he was making a delivery. The security guard had him sign in and only gave him a cursory glance as Bill moved past him and into one of the elevators, which he took to the thirty-eighth floor. Instead of heading to Forster’s hedge fund office, Bill stopped outside a locked supply closet. The lock was a cheap one, and within seconds he had it picked and was inside the closet, which was being used for janitorial supplies.

It was cramped in there, and the time was only a quarter to five. He had hours to wait before it would be safe to check whether the hedge fund office was empty, or at least mostly empty. That would be the best case scenario. At least then the alarm system wouldn’t be enabled. If the alarm system was turned on he’d only have a few minutes inside before he’d have to get out of there.

He cleared some space on the floor and took a seat. Over the next several hours Bill sat silently trying to sort out in his mind what he needed to do, and figuring out how Forster’s hedge fund fit into the picture seemed to be at the top of his priority. He was okay waiting like he was in a cramped space and in the dark. It flashed him back to his time in the army and the mountains outside of Bogotá when sometimes he’d have to hole up without any movement for as long as forty-eight hours before action. He found himself drifting asleep when the sound of a key in the door jerked him awake. Immediately alert, he squeezed himself into a corner and watched as the door opened and saw a man wearing blue overalls with the name tag, “Hank T.” sewn into them. He was in his forties, average height and size, and looked bored as he pulled out the vacuum cleaner, then other supplies. Somehow he never saw Bill, and wouldn’t have been able to hear him with the iPod that he had plugged into his ears. Once the door closed, Bill waited ten minutes, then left the closet.

The thirty-eighth floor was divided into three offices: Forster’s hedge fund and two law firms. The sound of a vacuum cleaner could be heard from inside Forster’s hedge fund office. It sounded faint, as if the vacuum cleaner were being run from deep within the office, probably a conference room. The outer door lock proved trickier than the one for the closet, but still it didn’t take long for Bill to open it. Past the reception area were three offices, all with their doors closed. Bill tried the one closest to him, picked the lock, and found a massive office that might’ve been larger than Emily’s North End apartment. The blinds were open and revealed an impressive view of Boston and the waterfront beyond that. Outside of a very expensive-looking cherry wood desk and leather chair, the office was empty. All that was on the desk was a phone and a couple of photos in silver frames. No computer, no papers. The desk drawers were unlocked, but also empty.

One of the photos was of a woman in a wedding dress. Brunette, attractive, bright smile. The picture was faded enough to show that it was taken years ago. The other photo was a studio shot of a boy, maybe ten and a girl a few years younger, the two of them holding hands. The boy was dressed in a suit, the girl in a fancy white dress with lots of bows and ribbons, almost as if it were Easter. From their physical resemblance, they were clearly brother and sister. Bill guessed that this must’ve been Forster’s office and the photos were of his widow and two children. He put the photos back on the desk and left.

The dull whine from the vacuum cleaner still came from the far end of the office suite. When Bill broke into the next private office he locked the door behind him. This office was smaller, but it had a computer on the desk, as well as several stacks of paper. The computer was turned off but once he powered it back on he found it wasn’t password protected. Whoever’s office it was must’ve thought the surroundings were secure enough without bothering with the nuisance of keeping track of another password.

Bill checked the email first. The recipient of the emails was one Elliot Johnson. He couldn’t find any emails sent or received from ViGen corporation. Johnson’s emails either seemed to be personal or directives on how to move the money around that was being transferred to their accounts. There were too many emails to sift through, and he knew he was running out of time. He was looking through the papers stacked on the desk when he heard a key in the door. Putting the papers down, he picked up the phone and acted as if he was in the middle of a conversation.
Hank T
walked in pushing a vacuum cleaner. As his eyes lifted and he saw Bill sitting behind the desk, he stumbled backwards a step and mumbled out an apology while at the same time turning off the vacuum cleaner. Then he stopped, his eyes narrowing to a squint as he focused on Bill’s face and all of his cuts and bruises.

Chapter 65

Hank T
’s face hardened. “You work here?” he asked.

Bill put his hand over the phone’s receiver, and in an annoyed tone that matched his expression, said, “Yes, of course I work here. You on drugs or something? Why the hell else do you think I’m here?”

“I don’t know. Um, I just don’t think I’ve seen you here—”

“Look, I’m on an important phone call right now, okay? Why don’t you get out of the room. Now!”

Hank T
took an awkward step backwards, but stopped. An uncertainty clouded his eyes. “How come the alarm was set when I came in?” he asked.

“It was? Godammit, it shouldn’t have been. The last one out is supposed to check all the offices before setting it. Thanks for letting me know. Now if there’s nothing else...”

Bill made an impatient shooing gesture, and
Hank T
reluctantly closed the door behind him but not before giving Bill one last wary look over his shoulder as if he were trying to remember where he had seen him before.

Bill knew he didn’t have much time.
Hank T
would soon be placing him as the murderer on the lam from all the news stories he’d been seeing, or at least doubting enough that someone dressed as casually and looking as beat-up as Bill could work there. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be making a phone call. Bill broke into the desk drawers where he found more files and added them to the papers piled on top of the desk.

It had been less than two minutes since
Hank T
stumbled out of the office, and Bill figured he had another five minutes or so before he had to be leaving, and he used the phone to try the numbers that he hadn’t been able to do reverse directory lookups for.

The first number reached a generic answering machine message, which didn’t help. The second one he tried a man answered, simply saying, “Yes?”

“This is Elliot Johnson calling from Forster’s Hedge Fund,” Bill said. “I want to make sure I’m talking to the right person.”

“Okay,” the man said.

“Don’t give me any of that okay shit,” Bill demanded sharply. “This is about what happened last night at ViGen. You want to confirm who I’m talking to?”

“Allan Rosten,” the man replied, a mix of confusion and subservience entering his voice.

“Okay, then, I’m waiting. Yes or no, did you hear what happened?”

“Yes, of course I heard,” Rosten said. He hesitated before adding, “I don’t understand. Why are you the one calling about this?”

“Why do you think? Who do you think it was that directed me to call you?”

Almost timidly, Rosten said, “Kloot.”

“Damn straight. He wants to make sure we don’t have that type of fuck up again.”

“Why does Kloot think this is my responsibility?”

“You figure it out.”

Bill hung up on him. The conversation had gone in such a surreal direction and it left him jazzed by what he had just pulled as well as curious as hell to know who this Kloot was. He tried the next number he had, and this time when a man answered his blood chilled as he matched the voice to a very pink face. He hung up and thought it would be wise to get going, but was itching to check whether
G
had left him any more messages. He logged onto
G’
s web-site and found a new message.

Bill, very cute. Yes, you guessed right, we had a tracking device installed in the iPhone, but that was for your own protection. You’ve gotta start learning to trust someone if you want to get out of this alive, or at least without spending the rest of your life in maximum security. As it is you had us wondering for a good two hours why the fuck you were hanging around a Chelsea high school. Again, very cute. Below’s a name and address of someone we think is a player at ViGen. Start showing some brains, okay?—yer pal G
.

Bill wrote down the name and address, then cleared out the history for the web browser. He didn’t bother wiping off his prints, instead just grabbed the stack of folders and papers that he had collected. Then he was moving fast out the door.

Hank T
stood by the reception area talking in a low voice into the phone. When he saw Bill he stopped. He glanced to see what Bill was carrying, then back to meet Bill’s stare. His right eye showed a twitch as he told Bill that he’d better put everything back.

“That’s not going to happen,” Bill said. “Just stay where you are. There’s no reason for you to get hurt.”

Hank T
stood frozen as Bill hurried past him and out of the office. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he waited for the elevator. Who the fuck did
Hank T
call? Security? The police? ViGen?

When the elevator came he took it to the second floor where he found a back staircase leading to a fire exit. It was that easy for him to leave, then he was racing back to where he had left the car he had boosted. There weren’t any police sirens, no one chasing him, nothing immediate that he needed to be worried about. Once he got back to the stolen Chevy Nova he was nearly hyperventilating, his body drenched so fully in sweat that his clothing felt soaked. He sank to one knee and stayed like that until his breathing became more normal and his head stopped swimming. Then he got into the car. He wanted to know who it was that
Hank T
had called, and he drove past the entrance to One Post Office Square. There were no police cars out front, only a familiar black Mercedes double-parked by the entrance.

 Bill slowed the car down to a crawl and squinted hard and was able to make out a familiar looking thug inside the lobby, along with a thin, well-dressed man, both of whom were talking to the security guard. The thin, well-dressed man had his back turned to Bill, but he made out the pointy ears and knew who the man was. He stepped harder on the gas and wondered briefly why he’d only been seeing the clean-shaven thug, and not the thug’s ox-sized goateed twin and had to guess that whatever he had injected into the other man had put him out of commission, maybe for good. Fine. He certainly wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.