The Tower of Endless Worlds (9 page)

Simon blinked. “Um…no problem. She doesn’t look like she’s feeling too well.” 

Katrina shook her head, a hint of strain passing over her face. “She’s overweight and has high blood pressure. And she smokes. Yes, I know that’s bad. You keep reminding me.” She looked at the door. “It’s late. I want to turn in. Anyway, thanks for dinner.”

“No problem,” said Simon. “Wednesday, like we said?”

Katrina nodded. “Wednesday, for lunch. We can argue some more.” 

“I’d like that,” said Simon. An urge came over him, and he leaned forward. 

Katrina took a step back. “What, you want a kiss?”

Simon froze. “We have been going out for two weeks, you know.”

Katrina didn’t move. “Most guys would have tried to get into my pants by now.”

“That doesn’t seem very moral,” said Simon.

Katrina laughed. “Moral? What, are you religious?”

“My father was a preacher. And I’m not most guys.”

Katrina frowned. “No. I suppose you’re not. Maybe that’s why you’re such an insufferable ass.” She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. Simon almost fell over in surprise. “Good night.” 

Simon stared at the close door. She had tasted like cigarette smoke. 

Nevertheless, he felt better than he had in years. 

He started down the staircase to the parking lot, his thoughts whirling in a confusing jumble. He had been spending a lot of time with Katrina in the last few weeks. Had it taken too much time from his studies? He had spent most of the last few years immersed in his academic efforts. Maybe he should break things off with Katrina and return his focus to his work.

Simon shook his head, trying to clear it. He stood to the side as a black man with a pair of bulging grocery bags headed up the stairs. 

He did not want to break things off with Katrina. She irritated him, annoyed him, and sometimes exasperated him. Yet he found himself respecting her, and liking her a great deal. She had not said a lot about her past, but he had gathered that she had been through quite a bit, most of it unpleasant. She had persevered, had made something of herself. So far he had made more of her life than he had with his.

He walked out the building’s front door and gasped at the heat. Chicago sweltered in August, even during the night. A thousand bugs danced around the front light, and mosquitoes buzzed around Simon's ears. He swatted them away with a curse and started walking. 

A short walk took him to the parking lot behind the building, It had no lights, but Katrina only lived a half mile from Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping's warehouse compound, and its light cast a dim glow over the lot. Simon took a moment to look over the lot, checking the shadows for any muggers. This was not one of Chicago’s better neighborhoods. He wondered how Katrina could stand to walk home from work every day. The woman had nerves of iron. 

Fortunately, the lot was deserted, and no one had touched Simon's van. He yawned and started toward it. 

A foot scraped behind him. 

Simon whirled, his hands coming up. 

“Sir, I beseech you…”

Simon blinked, his hands falling to his sides. The ragged man in the black uniform Simon had last seen with the security thugs leaned against the back of the apartment building. He looked terrible. Blood caked his chin and the side of his neck, and his eyes glittered with a feverish gleam.

“Sir.” The thin man’s voice croaked. “I beg of you, lend me aid.”

Simon spread his hands and stepped back. “Listen. I don’t want any trouble. I know you broke into Senator Wycliffe’s compound.”

The man in the black uniform laughed. “I was trying to get away. I have been trying to get away from that cursed place for weeks. They captured me and brought me back when you saw me.”

“What?” Why would Senator Wycliffe kidnap anyone? “But…you’re a spy, a spy from the Green Party. Why would they want to bring you back…”

“I beg you, aid me,” said the thin man, his voice dropping to a whisper. He staggered forward, his face glistening with sweat and blood. “For two weeks they held me captive in that dreadful place. The winged ones practiced their tortures on me. And that death-merchant, that miserable agent of Marugon’s…he worked his arts on me. His voice sliced into my mind.”  

Simon swallowed. “Listen, buddy, something’s wrong with you. We better get you to a doctor.” He decided to leave the madman here, go back to Katrina’s apartment, and call 911. 

The man clutched at Simon’s shoulder. “Please! I beg you! You must use your carriage…your car, your automobile, to take me from this place. It is vital. They…they will find me…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Simon, disentangling himself from the thin man’s pawing hands. “I’m not taking you anywhere. I’ll call an ambulance, get you to the hospital, whatever. But you look nuts. I’m not letting you get in my van…”

Despair crossed the man’s face. “You don’t understand…” 

He went rigid. 

"What is it?" said Simon, looking around.

The thin man's face fixed into a mask of dread. “Get down!”  He spun and dashed behind the dumpster.

Simon stared at him. “What…”

He heard a rush of air. 

Simon turned and almost screamed.

Something flew overhead, outlined in the dim glare of the distant floodlights. It swooped and perched atop Katrina's apartment building. The creature looked like a mixture of a huge, winged man and a leering gargoyle. It wore dark, sooty armor of interlocking metal plates. Iron-clawed hands jutted from its fingers, and huge leathery wings rose from its back. The creature had a bone-white face with burning red eyes, yellow fangs curving over its lips. 

Simon threw himself behind the dumpster. The thin man sat with his eyes closed, his face locked in mask of concentration, his lips working. His fingers traced odd patterns in the grime coating the dumpster.

Simon risked a glance up and almost screamed when the winged thing’s fiery gaze turned towards him. The sight of that creature made Simon want to crawl into a dark place and never come out again. 

The winged shadow jumped from the roof and rose, its leathery wings flapping against the air. It soared into the darkness and vanished. Simon let out long breath.

He looked at the man in the black uniform. “What…what was that?”

Sweat covered the thin man’s face. “My spell worked. I did not think I had the skill. But I was able to deflect its gaze. It did not see me. Or you, for that matter. You hid at the right time.”

“What’s going on? What was that? Who are you?”

“I…”  The man licked his cracked lips. “You may call me Conmager. Questions will wait. We must flee now!”  Conmager grabbed Simon’s shoulder. His haunted, feverish eyes glittered. “Do you not understand why?”

"What about Kat..." He did not want to give Katrina's name to Conmager. "What about the people in that building?"

"The winged demon will ignore them," said Conmager. "It hunts for me, not them. But we must go now!" 

Simon didn’t argue. They got into the van, and he drove for home as fast as he could.

Chapter 9 - The Cover Story

Anno Domini 2002

Simon yawned and climbed the stairs to the faculty offices. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows, gleaming off the tiles and the metal railings. 

“Hey, man.” 

Simon whirled, his heart climbing into his throat. For an instant he expected to see the winged creature standing behind him, fires burning in its eyes, iron claws reaching for his face…

Instead he saw Rod, the pimpled student worker who cleaned the stairwells. He had taken one of Simon's Intro to Western Civilization classes. “Oh. Hi. You startled me.”

Rod grinned. “You look like crap, Instructor.”

Simon laughed, his voice brittle. “Then I’m improving.”

Rod grinned again. “Man. You really need to get some sleep.”

Simon forced a smile. “It’s the truth. Take it easy.”

“Will do. Advice you might want to follow yourself.”

Simon nodded and opened the fifth floor door. A long hallway stretched to the far side of the building. Simon walked down the hall until he came to office 539. A little plaque bore Dr. Heloise Francis’s name in gold lettering. Simon raised his hand and knocked. 

A door slammed. Simon flinched, expecting to see that winged thing standing behind him. Instead a man in brown suit with tweed patches on the elbows stepped into the hallway, a newspaper under his arm. On his way to the bathroom, no doubt

“Simon?”

An elderly woman in jeans, white blouse, and a leather vest stood in the office door. Her iron-gray hair hung in a thick braid over her shoulder. “Ah…Dr. Francis.”

“Good to see you, Simon. Did I startle you? Well, come in, come in! I’ve been expecting you.”  A shrill whistle sounded. “Tea’s ready. Sit down, I’ll be with you soon.”  She hurried to the window. A hotplate perched on the sill, a white teapot sitting on its surface. 

Simon eased into the office and shut the door behind him. The smell of old books, paper, and ink filled his nostrils. Bookshelves crammed to overflowing lined all four walls of the office. Stacked books, files, and papers covered the floor. Dr. Francis’s desk rested in the corner, buried beneath even more books and papers. Her guest chair held a translation of Josephus, a Greek-English dictionary, and a thick stack of handwritten notes. 

“Just put those on the floor,” said Dr. Francis, fiddling with the teapot. 

Simon obeyed and settled into the chair. His eyes wandered over the volumes on the shelves. The woman had a huge library, and thousands more books crammed into her small house.

He felt comfortable here. Safe, even.

Despite the things he had seen last night.

“Ah, there we go,” said Dr. Francis. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of green teacups. “Tea?”

“Sure.” Simon ran a hand through his hair. Dr. Francis brewed good tea. Perhaps it would help settle his nerves. 

Dr. Francis handed him a cup, and Simon began sipping at the hot tea. She watched him over the rim of her cup, her gray eyes glinting.

“Simon.”

Simon set his cup down. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You really look dreadful.”

Simon grimaced. “Thank you.”

“I’m quite serious,” said Dr. Francis. “You look like you’ve been under a lot of stress.”

Simon blinked. Dr. Francis had no idea. “I suppose I have. Finals are coming up, and I’ve been spending a lot of time studying. And I’ve got a lot going on at my new job.” 

“Congratulations are in order for that, I suppose.”  Dr. Francis set down her cup. “Still, I’m not entirely sure I approve.”

“Why not?” said Simon. “Almost all the doctoral candidates my age have full-time work. I’ve been bouncing from part-time job to part-time job for years. This job is a godsend.”

“Senator Wycliffe does not seem like an honest man,” said Dr. Francis.

“He’s a politician,” said Simon. He brushed away thoughts of Conmager and the winged thing. “It’s to be expected.” 

“Granted,” said Dr. Francis. “But even for a politician, he seems crooked.”

“A lot of that is just rumors because of that scandal with his predecessor,” said Simon. “And don’t you always tell me that a historian is supposed to sift rumor from fact?” 

Dr. Francis chuckled. “True enough.”

“Besides,” said Simon. “Wycliffe is a politician. He’s undoubtedly done something unethical at some point.” Conmager flashed through his thoughts. “But so what? If I still worked at the convenience store, I’d have to sell cigarettes and pornography. Is that ethical? Not to mention the health code violations there, especially in the restroom.” He shuddered. “Those things were vile.”

Dr. Francis smiled. “Wait till you visit Turkey someday. Then you’ll see a frightening public restroom.” 

“My point is, almost any corporation I could work for would have done something illegal and unethical at some point. Am I suppose to live in a hut in the woods just because every company I might work for did something evil at some point?”

Dr. Francis shrugged. “I suppose not. You have a point. Still, if you really want to get into the debate between individual and collective ethical responsibility, go down to the philosophy department. They’ll explain it.”

“Ad nauseum,” said Simon 

“What do you think of Wycliffe’s political position?” said Dr. Francis. “He seems very hard-line on some things.”

Simon shrugged. “I consider myself apolitical.”

“Well, if you’re comfortable with the job, and it works for you, who am I to gainsay it? It’s not my job to run your life. It is my job, however, to oversee your studies.” She took another sip of tea. “This will not interfere with your finals, I hope?”

“No!” said Simon. “I’ve spent too much time and effort to drop the ball now.”

“Good to hear,” said Dr. Francis. “Speaking of which, I finally read your dissertation outline.”

Simon sat up straighter. “And?”

“Very good,” said Dr. Francis. “I think you really have something here. How much of your research do you have done?”

“Most of it,” said Simon. “I still need to read four or five books and a stack of journal articles. Another month, I think, and I’ll be ready to start.” He grinned. “I have something like five thousand notecards and four hundred books in my room. I don’t think it’ll take me too long to write. I know precisely what I want to say, more or less, and how to say it. I just need to get it down on paper.” 

“Good,” said Dr. Francis. “I want you to develop this further. You have the makings of a very good book. There’s a lot out there on Rome and the Romans, certainly, but less than you’d think on the common soldiers. How did they live, what did they eat, what did they want from life? You’ll address quite a few of those questions, if your dissertation goes the way you plan.”

“Thank you,” said Simon. 

Dr. Francis smiled. “And I’ve a bit more good news.”

Simon frowned. “Oh?”

“I’ve been having some discussions with the department chair,” said Dr. Francis. “If you want it, there’s a part-time teaching position open for you fall semester.”

Simon almost fell out of his chair. “What?” 

“Two Western Civilization intro classes,” said Dr. Francis. “And after your dissertation is finished, and if they like what they see, they’ll offer to make you full-time faculty.”

“Really?” said Simon.

Dr. Francis smiled. “Yes. Really. It’s a good opportunity. You said Senator Wycliffe is flexible? This well mesh well with your other job and your dissertation.”

“Of course I’ll do it!” said Simon, excitement drowning out his fear and his exhaustion. “I mean…why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll tell the appropriate people,” said Dr. Francis. “You should get an official letter and that other bureaucratic nonsense in the mail in a few weeks.”

“Thank you,” said Simon. “For everything.”

The news was so good that Simon almost forgot the things he had seen last night.

Almost.

Dr. Francis smiled. “Are you sure you’re okay, Simon? There’s something else bothering you, I think.”

Simon’s excitement crumpled beneath the weight of last night’s memories. How could he tell that to Dr. Francis? She would think he was on drugs. 

So he went for the other topic on his mind. “I…well…I…sort of have a woman in my life. Sort of.”

Dr. Francis raised an iron-gray eyebrow. “Sort of?”

“She’s the database administrator at Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. We have nothing in common. She’s arrogant…” 

Dr. Francis’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Nothing in common?”

Simon grimaced. “She’s…ah, I don’t know. She is who she is.”

“Profound words, indeed,” said Dr. Francis. “These things sort themselves out in time.”

Again the creature flashed through Simon’s mind. “I hope you’re right, ma’am. I really do.” 

“That's all we need to discuss for now,” said Dr. Francis. “You’ve been doing well, Simon. Keep up the good work. You’re almost finished.”

“Thank you.” Simon left, shutting the door behind him.

###

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.”