A week later Simon walked into the lobby of Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping and licked his dry lips.
Markham glanced up from his coffee. “Mr. Wester! How have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you and Ms. Coldridge.”
“I’m fine,” said Simon, looking at the office manager. Did he know the truth? Did he know about the guns, the bombs, and the winged demons lurking beneath the beards and the leather jackets? “Katrina’s…well, Katrina’s getting better.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Markham, relief crossing his lined face. “What happened?”
Simon remembered the story he and Katrina had worked out in her hospital room. “We were eating dinner in my kitchen. Someone kicked down the back door. I think it was some kind of home invasion robbery. We didn’t stay long enough to find out. We ran out the front door. Katrina went into the street and got hit by a black van. It might have been the robber. I don’t know.” The horror of that night rose up is mind. Simon closed his eyes and squelched it, knowing that it would return in his dreams.
“That’s awful,” said Markham. “How is Ms. Coldridge?”
“She’s recovering, thank God,” said Simon. He had found himself becoming much more religious in the last week. “She had a shattered right arm, a fractured right leg, and cuts from broken glass. She’ll get better, though it’ll take a while.” He shook his head. “My mother freaked out when she got back from Florida. And Katrina’s mother didn’t take it too well, either.” He hoped the obese old woman wouldn’t have a heart attack. Katrina did not need that right now.
“Terrible, just terrible,” said Markham. “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
Simon smiled. “Thanks.” Perhaps Markham didn’t know the terrible truth about Wycliffe. Simon had remained oblivious to it for almost a year. Or he had chosen to ignore it for the sake of his paycheck. “Thanks. It means a lot.” He fingered the pocket of his coat. The guard at the gate hadn’t bothered to search him. “I...have to see Senator Wycliffe now.”
“Of course,” said Markham. “Of course. He’s been quite worried about you both.”
“I know,” said Simon. “We got a card from him.”
Simon started up the hall to Wycliffe’s office. He fingered the small revolver hidden in his pocket. He had bought it, illegally, from a pawnshop owner on Maxwell Street. He had taken it to the woods behind the house and tested it, keeping it secret from his mother and Katrina and from the children.
He knew it worked.
Simon came to Wycliffe’s office door, raised his hand, and knocked. No one answered.
Simon pushed open the door, his hand dipping into his pocket. Wycliffe stood behind his desk, clad in a double-breasted suit. A TV stood in back corner. Wycliffe watched it, chewing his lip.
“Police continued to remain baffled by the mysterious explosion that took place last week in the South Side warehouse district,” said a blond anchorwoman, standing before the charred ruins of the warehouse. “Though there appears to have been no sign of terrorism, bomb experts say the blast pattern corresponds to no known…”
Wycliffe scowled and turned off the TV. “Damn you, Marugon.”
“Senator?” said Simon. His arm tensed. He would draw the gun, level it, squeeze the trigger…
Wycliffe turned, and Simon took a step back. Wycliffe’s eyes were bottomless pits into an unending nothingness. Simon lost the grip on his gun, and it fell back into his pocket.
“Mr. Wester! Come in, come in,” said Wycliffe. His eyes had resumed their normal dull brown shade. “You caught me off guard, I’m afraid. Have a seat.”
Simon sat, sweat trickling down his back. Suppose he did kill Wycliffe? What then? What if the winged demons captured him alive? What if they tracked his trail back to Katrina and Ally and Lithon? Simon suddenly felt very foolish. Wycliffe was just an appendage of the monster, not its head.
Simon had glimpsed the head that terrible night, swathed in a hooded black robe.
Wycliffe sat at his desk and folded his hands. “I heard about what happened to you and Ms. Coldridge. Terrible, just terrible. Crime in this city has just gotten out of hand.” His voice hardened. “I must have words with the mayor, and perhaps with the governor, about this.”
Simon didn’t say anything. He wanted to draw the gun and shoot Wycliffe between the eyes. A small part of him knew he would never have this chance again. But the rest of him worried about what would happen to Katrina and the children if he shot Wycliffe.
“Well,” said Wycliffe, waving his hands. “You have much bigger concerns on your mind than political squabbles, no doubt. How is Ms. Coldridge? Will she recover?”
Simon nodded. “She should. It’ll take a while and a lot of physical therapy before she’s up and about again. A couple of months, at least. Hopefully she’ll be walking again by Christmas.”
Wycliffe sighed. “Like they always tell the soldiers, right?”
Simon snorted. “Right.”
“So I take it Ms. Coldridge will be…ah, absent from work for a very long while?” said Wycliffe.
Simon nodded. “Very.” He shrugged. “She…was going to quit soon anyway.”
Wycliffe raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“We’re getting married, and I’m starting that new job soon,” said Simon. “She thought it was getting too…political around here. She doesn’t like politics. And she wanted to go back to school.”
Wycliffe chuckled. “Too political? I am a Senator, you know.” He leaned forward. “I think you should consider staying. I can use a good speechwriter and PR man. And there are great things ahead, Mr. Wester. Very great things.”
Simon swallowed. “I’m flattered.” He thought of the winged demons, of Conmager’s haunted eyes, and of the man in the black robe. He almost drew the gun and fired. “I’m…sure great things are ahead. But I have a chance to pursue a career I want to pursue…I think that’s a chance I should take.”
Wycliffe stared at him, unblinking, and Simon stared back. Finally Wycliffe smiled. “Ah, well. You’ll do well, Mr. Wester. My mistake. Dr. Wester. I would have become a historian myself, I suppose, if fate had not intervened. I wish you and your future wife well.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Simon.
Wycliffe waved his hand. “Well, if that’s all, I suppose we both have a great deal to do. Good day, Mr. Wester.”
Simon nodded. “Senator.” He rose, his hand slipping into his pocket. “I’ll be sure to watch out for black vans on my way home…”
Wycliffe leaned back into his chair. “Wait. A black van, you say? It was a black van that hit her?”
“Yeah,” said Simon, his fear growing. He could almost see the wheels spinning behind Wycliffe’s eyes. “Why? Someone you know?”
“Perhaps.” Wycliffe’s expression grew distant. “A black van? Did they go to that part of the city?” Simon swallowed. If Wycliffe figured it out, Katrina and the children were doomed. “You didn’t happen to see any children beforehand, did you?”
“Children?” Simon faked a befuddled expression and gathered his resolve. His fingers curled around the gun’s cold metal grip.
“A small boy, three or four years old,” said Wycliffe. “Perhaps in the company of an older man with a strange accent?”
“Not at all,” said Simon. He started to draw the gun from his pocket. “Why?”
“No reason,” said Wycliffe. His voice had gone calm and smooth. “No reason at all. But, tell me one thing, if you please. This man who broke down your back door. What did he look like? Big and tall with a leather jacket?”
Simon shook his head. “Senator. I…don’t know. I didn’t get that much of a look at him. And frankly, I didn’t. I don’t want to know. I just want to put this behind me, help Katrina get better, and move on with my life.”
Wycliffe smiled, and suspicion faded from his eyes. “A wise choice. This sort of experience can destroy a man. And I suspect you were caught up someone else’s business. A failed drug deal, perh
aps, or gang warfare.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know,” said Simon. He hesitated, his fingers still around the gun’s butt.
Wycliffe glanced past Simon’s shoulder. “Ah. Goth.”
Simon turned and almost screamed, the gun falling back into his pocket.
A huge man in the hooded jacket, sunglasses, and fake beard the winged demons used to disguise themselves stood in the doorway. Simon had seen that man before, standing besides the robed figure on that horrible night.
Wycliffe smiled. “Dr. Wester, meet Goth Marson. He’s the head of the private security firm I contracted to guard these premises.” Goth did not extend his hand, and neither did Simon.
“Senator,” said Goth, his voice a bone-rattling rumble. “Your partner has departed for his native land. He expects to send regular messages concerning your business together.”
“Good,” said Wycliffe. He gave Goth a look. “I hoped that he would clear up…certain mysteries before he left, but I shall be satisfied.” Simon wondered how much Wycliffe himself knew about what had happened. “Well. I’ve taken up enough of your time, Dr. Wester.” Wycliffe rose. “I wish you well, and good luck in…”
“He is leaving us?” said Goth. The disguised demon titled his head and glared.
“Goth.” Wycliffe and Goth shared a look. “No. My partner left you behind, at your request, but you are under my command. I will not tolerate insubordination. If I wish for a certain matter to be…resolved…then you will resolve it with all speed. But if I say no, then I mean no. Understood?”
Goth chuckled, a vicious, deep sound. “Very well.”
Wycliffe smiled. “Besides, it’s not as if I have a shortage of work for you.” Goth chuckled again. “Well, Dr. Wester, until we meet again.”
Simon nodded, brushed past Goth’s bulk, and never set foot in Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping again.
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The Tower of Endless Worlds Page 62
