Simon tapped the break pedal, his van sliding to a stop at the intersection.
Something dark and winged shot overhead.
Simon flinched and risked a look up. A large pigeon perched on the stoplight, picking at its wings.
A horn blared.
The light had turned green. Simon stomped the gas and roared through the intersection. He drove down the one-way street where he had collided with Senator Wycliffe. A thousand conflicting thoughts chased each other through his mind.
The winged creature.
Conmager and his story.
Simon needed answers.
His house came into sight, stark against the background of the sunken woods. Simon’s eyes darted over the roof, the telephone poles, the trees, searching for any sign of winged shapes. Fortunately, he saw nothing. Simon pulled into the driveway, his head throbbing.
He climbed out of the van and winced at the afternoon heat. He missed winter. Insects buzzed in the heavy air. He trudged up the back porch stairs and let himself inside.
“Mom, I’m home!” The kitchen and the dining room stood dusty and empty. A bit of fear tugged at Simon’s heart. What if that winged creature had followed him home last night? “Mom!” He shoved open the living room door, the chill of the air conditioner slapping his face.
Maura sat in her chair. “Simon. You don’t need to shout. You interrupted my nap.”
“Oh.”
Maura frowned. “Well, don’t stand there with the door open! You’re letting all the cold air out.”
“Sorry.” Simon let the door swing shut. “Are you feeling all right? You never sleep during the day.”
Maura sat up straighter. “I don’t really know, boy. I didn’t sleep too well last night.”
Simon felt his stomach lurch. “Why not?”
Maura felt at her bathrobe pocket for cigarettes. “It’s…boy! Did you take my cigarettes?”
Simon leaned against the wall and smirked.
Maura rolled her bloodshot eyes. “You can be a self-righteous little busybody at times, boy. Just like your father.”
“I learned well,” said Simon. “So, why didn’t you sleep well? Do we need to take you to the doctor?”
Maura shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that. I feel fine. I just didn't sleep well. I kept hearing noises in the woods. Crashing and clanking and things like that. I even got up and went to the window to see. I couldn’t see anything.” She blinked. “And there was that dream.”
“Dream? What dream?” said Simon.
Maura’s eyes went hazy. “I…dreamed about a big bird. Isn’t that silly?”
Simon shivered. “A big bird?”
“A big bird with horns and glowing eyes," said Maura. “I know. Isn’t it silly? I thought it swooped past our house a few times, and then turned and flew away.”
Simon licked his lips. “You need to watch fewer soap operas, that’s all.”
Maura snorted. “They don’t have giant birds on soap operas. On PBS, but not on soap operas.”
“I suppose not,” said Simon. “Well. Um…I need to do some laundry. Do you need anything washed?”
“No. I have to get ready.” Maura levered herself up. “It’s bingo night at church.”
“You’re sure your car has enough gas?” said Simon.
Maura looked at him. “I’m old, boy, not senile. Now get the door for me.”
Simon held the door open. Maura shuffled into the dining room and up the stairs. Simon waited until he heard her bedroom door slam, and then hurried to the kitchen and slid open the basement door. He groped his way down the dark stairs and flipped on the light.
The house had a large basement. The washer and dryer huddled in one corner, cobwebs coated the ceiling beams, and dust covered the walls. His mother would have been appalled if she had seen the mess, but she didn’t come down here much. She didn’t like to negotiate the stairs.
Simon flipped on the light.
Conmager lay sleeping on the floor, next to several empty cans.
“Hey,” said Simon. Conmager didn’t stir. “Hey. Wake up!”
Conmager’s eyes flashed open. He leapt to his feet, a long knife gleaming in his hand. Simon squawked and stumbled back.
Conmager blinked a few times. “Oh.” He slid the knife into its hidden sheath. “I forgot where I was.”
“Yeah,” said Simon, his heart racing. “Yeah. Ah…did you eat well?”
Conmager smiled. “I have not eaten so well in years. Such food your nation has. The meat, rich with its own juices…”
Simon looked at the cans and raised an eyebrow. “You mean the Spam?”
“Was that its name? Yes. The Spam. I have not felt this well for a very long time.”
“Good,” said Simon. “We have to talk.”
Conmager nodded. “I deem it time for palaver, yes.”
“Here,” Simon said. He led Conmager to a corner. A pair of armchairs sat before a long-dead TV. His father had tried to create a basement den years ago. The dead TV and the dusty chairs were all that remained of his project. Conmager settled down with a sigh. Simon sat as well.
They stared at each other for a moment.
Simon broke the silence. “Would…would the winged thing have come here? Could it have followed us?”
Conmager nodded. “They could have.” He stiffened. “Why? Did you see one?”
Simon shook his head. “No. But my mother told me she dreamed that a huge bird flew over the house. A bird with horns and fiery eyes.”
Conmager shuddered. “It is possible. Their eyes are sharp and their ears clear, and their senses extend into worlds unknown to mere mortals. They could have tracked us. Not to precisely here, no, but they could know where I am.”
“They?” said Simon. “Them? Do you mean there are more than one of these things?”
Conmager laughed. His voice held no mirth. “There are many thousands of these things. Some still dwell in my homeland. Others have come to your land.”
“Who are you, really?” said Simon.
“I have told you already,” said Conmager. “I am Conmager, formerly of Carlisan.” His lips twisted. “Now I am Conmager of Nowhere, it seems.”
“Carlisan?” said Simon. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Few in your land have,” said Conmager.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Simon. “Who do you work for? Or…better yet, what’s going on?”
Conmager shrugged. “I am unsure myself. Suffice it to say my homeland was invaded by men bearing powerful weapons. I barely escaped with my life, and decided to track the weapons back to their source. After a long and perilous journey, I found my way here.”
“You’re a refugee, then?” said Simon. Perhaps Conmager was a political refugee. Maybe the government wanted him captured for some reason. Then he thought of the winged creature, and his explanation fizzled.
“A refugee?” said Conmager. “I am not familiar with the word.”
“Aha! So you are a foreigner.” Conmager gave him a blank stare. Simon rubbed his forehead. “A refugee is a person who has fled his home because of war or strife or famine.”
Conmager nodded. “Yes. Then I am a refugee.”
“So…so you’re from some country on the other side of the world, right? Someone invaded your home with guns. You traced them back here, to Chicago.” Conmager nodded. That explanation made sense. But it fell apart when he came to the winged creature with its burning eyes. “Why were you trying to break into Wycliffe’s compound?”
“His what?”
Simon scowled. “The place where I saw you. You first talked to me across the street from there. Then I saw you inside, at Senator Wycliffe’s office.”
Conmager blinked. “You mean the fortress with the trucks.”
“Yes! That place,” said Simon. “Why were you trying to break inside?”
Conmager shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I was not trying to break inside. I was trying to get away.”
Simon fr
owned. “What do you mean?”
“I had been in that dreadful place for two weeks,” said Conmager. “I saw that there was nothing I could do there. So I tried to escape. Yet the gun merchant is cunning. He realized my absence, and sent his minions out to capture me.”
Simon frowned. “I still don’t understand. Why were you in there in the first place if you didn’t want to be?”
“It is how I found my way to your nation,” said Conmager. “I followed one of the caravans that delivered guns and bombs to my land. I hid myself within its ranks, and eventually we came here.”
“You don’t mean…but…but that would mean…” The realization hit Simon like a lead weight. “Oh my God. He’s a gun-runner. Senator Wycliffe’s a gun-runner.” It all made sense. Wycliffe's trucks were sealed, and no one was allowed to look inside. The man had come to wealth with blinding speed. How better to make a fortune than selling guns to insurgents across the globe? Simon remembered the article about Demeko-Kurkov’s connections with the Russian Mafia. Did Wycliffe buy up old Soviet army materiel through them and sell it off at a higher price? Or did he use Demeko-Kurkov as middlemen?
It didn’t matter. Simon remembered the convenient suicides of Wycliffe’s political opponents. Another forgotten fact lodged in his memory came to light. Eddie Carson, the reporter who had gone berserk at Senator Fulbright’s campaign headquarters, had been doing an investigative report on Wycliffe at the time.
Simon ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Too convenient. Just too convenient.”
Conmager frowned. “Are you well? You look ill.”
Simon winced. “We have some serious problems.”
Conmager nodded. “On this we can agree.”
“Okay,” said Simon. “Okay. I can believe everything you said. About the gun-running and the smuggling. But what about that winged thing? What is it? Where did it come from? Why…”
Conmager held up a hand. “Perhaps you should not think too much about it. You have grasped as much as the truth as you can, I deem. To think more about it might unseat your mind.”
“Yeah,” said Simon. “Yeah. But…”
“Simon!” Maura’s voice rang down the stairs. Conmager froze. “Who are you talking to down there?”
“No one, Mom!” said Simon. “I’m doing laundry.”
“I thought I heard voices.”
Simon looked around. “Um…I was fiddling with the old TV. I got some sound on it for a minute.”
There was a pause. “Well. I’m going to bingo, boy. Try not to work too hard, and get to bed at a godly hour. There’s some leftover stroganoff in the fridge, if you want supper.”
“Thanks, Mom,” said Simon. He waited until he heard the back door slam.
“Who was that?” said Conmager.
“My mother,” said Simon. “She doesn’t know you’re here. I didn’t want to get her involved.”
“That is wise,” said Conmager. “What I have seen would try the sanity of a strong man. It might well destroy an old woman.”
“What am I going to do with you?” said Simon. “Why did you have to fall into my lap?”
Conmager tensed. “You will not surrender me to my enemies?”
“Of course not!” said Simon. “You’d probably cut my throat if I tried.”
Conmager blanched. “I would not! You have aided me. And you have taken me under your roof and let me partake of your food. For a guest to murder his host is among the blackest of crimes, worthy of Marugon and Goth-Mar-Dan.”
“Did you say….” Simon blinked. “Never mind. The name sounded familiar, that’s all. Besides, how could I turn anyone over that winged creature?” The mere sight of the thing had filled him with paralyzing dread. He shuddered to think of what it might have done to Conmager.
What it might still do, if it caught them.
“Then what shall you do?” said Conmager.
“I don’t know,” said Simon. “I can’t go to the police. Wycliffe would kill me.” He shook his head and looked at Conmager’s glittering eyes. “And how do I know what you’ve told me is true? You could be waiting to kill me and take my credit cards. It could be a scam.”
“The winged one,” said Conmager, his voice soft. “You know I am telling the truth because you have seen the winged one.”
Simon closed his eyes. “Yes.”
“I will go,” said Conmager. “You are right when you say you cannot aid me. You dare not. My enemies would obliterate you if they learned of it. I will go with all speed.” A hint of desperation tugged at his face. “Perhaps…perhaps I can hide from the winged ones, continue to turn aside their eyes…”
Guilt ripped Simon’s mind. “Wait. Do you know how to drive?”
Conmager’s thin eyebrows knitted. “Drive?”
“A vehicle like my van,” said Simon. “Do you know how to operate one of those?”
Conmager nodded. “Well enough. I learned how during my journey with the caravan to this place.”
“Here.” He reached into his pocket and thrust out his keys. “My van. Take it.”
Conmager blinked. “What?”
“Take my van, you idiot,” said Simon. “Will you have a chance of outrunning those…things if you can drive?”
Conmager nodded. “I could. Your nation is vast. I have seen maps. If could run fast enough, I could lose myself in your great cities, or in the vast plains.” His feverish eyes glittered. “Your vehicle could help me.”
Simon pushed the keys into Conmager’s bony hand. “Then take it. Here. Take all the food you can carry from the pantry. And this.” He dug out his wallet and pulled out all the money it held, about a hundred and twenty dollars. “This money might help.”
“But your vehicle? How will you account for its loss?” said Conmager.
“I’ll….” Simon snapped his fingers. “I know. I’ll say you jumped me, took my keys and money, and stole my van.” He frowned. “But that’ll get the police after you.”
Conmager grinned. “Before I turned from my old ways and was made an apprentice of the White Council, I was a thief and a highwayman. I am well-skilled in avoiding the eyes of the city guard. Men of the law are the same, no matter where you go. What are a few more men chasing me? I can avoid them, and it will remove any suspicion from you.”
“Then go before they figure out you’re here.”
Conmager nodded. They hurried up the basement stairs, Conmager carrying a load of cans in his skinny arms. They walked into the driveway and the summer heat. Simon opened the van’s rear hatch, and Conmager dumped his load inside. Simon would miss his van. He hesitated, then thought of the winged thing, and shoved his doubts aside. He could not let anyone, not even this peculiar stranger, fall into its claws.
Simon stepped back. “I’ll rough myself up a bit, so it looks like you jumped me.”
Conmager nodded. “I will go to…no, I won’t tell you.”
“That’s wise. I don’t want to know.”
“Thank you, Simon Wester, for all the aid you have given me,” said Conmager.
“Yeah. Whatever,” said Simon. “Just go.”
Conmager nodded and climbed into the van. He started the engine, backed out into the street, and drove away.
Simon watched him go. He turned and walked back into the house, his mind composing explanations.
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