The Mission Begins

by Kevin J. Fitzgerald

  “I don’t believe it,” Paladin said simply. He took an involuntary step in the direction of the Dove. “It’s Spirit!” he laughed.

  “Oh, bother! Here we go again!” Rolo said sarcastically.

  “Can it be?” Frenjoo asked. “I mean, is it him? Again?”

  Rolo sighed. “There’s only one way to find out for sure, gents.” Without hesitation, the guinea pig made his way over to the wire fence that separated the two fields—the one they were in, and the adjoining one, the one that ran up to the line of trees where the woods began—and crawled through one of the small wire holes. Safely on the other side, he paused and looked back at the others. Smiling, Rolo straightened his beret and started across the opposite field.

  Without looking at each other, Paladin and Frenjoo shook the dew from their legs and followed after Rolo. It seemed the only logical thing to do.

  As they did, somewhere way across the field they just left, a still-groggy worker climbed down from the cab of his tractor and began distributing hay to the delighted “moos” of a herd of milking-cows, completely unaware of all the excitement and commotion his routine chores had caused that morning.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Communications at Midway”

  The man threw some of his stale popcorn to the pigeons gathered at his feet.

  The birds bustled about busily contentedly gobbling up the popcorn. For a moment, he couldn’t help but wonder what an existence would be like wherein one is so easily pleased, so non-picky. Unlike how he and the rest of his own breed normally were. Silently, he found himself comparing himself to the birds.

  What happened? he wondered.

  Then, his thoughts were pushed aside as the large, fat man came waddling up the park pathway. He wore extremely dark sunglasses, despite the overcast sky, and smoked a cigar. Well, not exactly smoked it; gnawed on it, more like. He wore his usual black suit. Behind him on the path, several yards away, stood two others. Smaller, thinner men. Men who looked somehow less important, more like shadowy images than men of real substance. He recognized them as two of Lou Lyons’ D-Men; men whom Lyons claimed didn’t exist. When he first looked up, they had been following closely behind Lou Lyons. Now, they stopped underneath the low-lying branches of some overhanging trees near the path, just sort of lingering there, moving back and forth idly, as though floating. Waiting.

  As Lyons approached the bench, he took one last enormous drag from his cigar and tossed the butt insensitively down at the pigeons. It struck one squarely on the back, and it scurried away. Lyons showed no reaction. However, when some of the pigeons gathered around the smoking remains of the cigar and began to poke at it to see exactly what kind of food this was, Lyons chuckled to himself. A cold, empty sound. As he took a few final steps closer, Lyons raised his hands and yelled loudly at them, driving them away. The sound caused the other man—the man seated on the bench—to shudder noticeably. In the next moment, Lou Lyons lowered his large body onto the park bench next to him. The bench creaked in revolt.

  “Filthy birds,” Lyons grumbled. He brushed his suit, as if he had somehow been defiled.

  The other man was just about to say something in response when all at once a huge bird fluttered out of the sky and landed on Lyon’s shoulder. The man drew back suddenly, almost recoiled. His nose wrinkled and lips pulled up, as if he had smelled something rotten. Lyons, however, didn’t move. The man had never seen a bird so large and ominous looking before. Its marking were completely unlike anything he had ever seen: a grey and black bird with just a hint of bluish green feathers on its wings. It was, in fact, so huge and foreign-looking—and as it sat perched calmly upon Lyon’s shoulders it was, by all accounts, so completely out of place—that for a moment, the man was dumbstruck. Repulsed. To him, the scene lingered somewhere between completely absurd and altogether horrifying. Lou Lyons sat there, his huge posture unchanged, only the corners of his large, red mouth slowly working in and out of varying degrees of a smile, as though he were reading some unseen text and enjoying it. The other man couldn’t help but wonder if Lyons was somehow reading his own thoughts.

  “The park really ought to do something about them,” Lyons continued. “About the birds,” he added quickly, then looked at the other man straight on. “Don’t you agree?”

  The man didn’t answer, unnerved at Lyon’s sarcasm. Then, as if Lou Lyons’ large winged companion wholeheartedly agreed—and was equally interested in the other man’s opinion—it cawed loudly and slowly looked at him with a single red eye. The man sat for a moment, as though feeling the weight of the stare of the bird. Then, he looked away from its crimson gaze.

  Around them, the park was nearly empty, except for a few mothers pushing prams across the vast green. It was a wet, grey day. The man on the bench with Lyons couldn’t help but look into the sky and long for the bright warmth of summer again. But, something told him that the days would somehow never be as bright again. As if on cue, Lyons said, “Have you thought any more about my proposition?”

  “Proposition?” the man responded, and looked at Lyons. Lyons was not looking at him. “Funny way of putting it,” the man added finally. He looked down at his hands, trying to look as though he had something to do with them and failing.

  “Well,” Lyons said, now looking at the man and throwing back his head and smiling. The man noticed that Lyons’ teeth were perfectly straight. And white, despite the seemingly endless supply of cigars he chewed upon. “I’m a funny guy.”

  “Tell me again,” the man began quietly, as if afraid their voices would be overheard. “Where exactly is this. . . what did you call it?” He searched for the word, and then remembered. “This ‘facility,’ exactly, Lyons?”

  Lyons said nothing, but only looked at the man for a moment. Slowly, the smile faded from Lyons’ lips and the man couldn’t help but wonder what was going on behind those dark sunglasses. He suddenly found himself wondering if there were eyes there at all, or just empty sockets that stared coldly and gave way into an abyss that bid no return for those who entered. For one crazy moment, the man wanted to reach up and yank those annoying sunglasses off Lou Lyons’ face, just to satisfy his own morbid sense of curiosity. The man didn’t realize how hard he was staring until Lyons suddenly reached up and quickly pushed the sunglasses a little further up his nose.

  The man almost screamed.

  “And why exactly do you want to know . . . Davies?” Lyons answered calmly.

  Alarmed, Davies looked around quickly, as if checking to see if the mothers at the other end of the park had heard his name. “Look,” Davies said quickly. Lyons was pleased to see Davies lick his lips. “It’s m-my money, Lyons. I think I have a right to know where my money is going.”

  “Easy, Congressman,” Lyons answered.

  Davies flinched when Lyons said it. He fumbled to produce a bottle of antacids and quickly consumed a handful. “Lower your voice!” Davies whispered nervously.

  “Nobody’s listening, Davies,” Lyons retorted, shaking his head slightly. “Nobody cares.” He paused, and then looked away and added deliberately, “Not yet.” And, as if to punctuate this last statement, the large bird on Lyons’ shoulder cawed loudly once more, a single defiant sound in the grey stillness of the afternoon.

  Davies narrowed his eyes a bit, and looked even more intently at Lyons. “What do you mean?” he asked, shifting his body on the bench to face Lyons. Lyons, however, looked away and sighed heavily. “What are you talking about, Lyons?” Davies persisted. “What are you up to?” After a moment, Davies rose to his feet indignantly. Perhaps he wanted to feel empowered. Down the path, the two D-Men stirred restlessly. Lyons stared up at him.

  “Why . . . little ol’ me?” Lyons said in a mocking, sickeningly-sweet Southern accent. There was a silence wherein the two men regarded each other quietly. When Lyons spoke again, his voice had changed completely. “Sit down, Davies,” he said flatly. Coldly. Emotionlessly.

  Davies looked down the path at the D-Men, as if c
alculating his chances for flight. He looked in the other direction, and noticed for the first time that a group of crows had landed nearby and were picking at something that was lying in the path. One of them calmly looked up at him. A murder, Davies thought randomly, suddenly remembering his high school English. That’s what a group of crows is called: A murder. From behind him, there suddenly came that single loud burst from the strange bird on Lyons’ shoulder again. This time, Davies jumped. Slowly, he lowered himself and sat on the bench again next to Lou Lyons. He wouldn’t look at the large fat man, but could practically feel the weight of his measuring stare. And that horrible grin. For some reason, Davies was nervous. He felt like a school kid who had gotten into trouble and sat quietly awaiting the punishment of the teacher.

  Lyons, on the other hand, seemed more than comfortable. He seemed, in fact, like someone engaged in a certain conversation who knows how the conversation is going to turn out. Not like someone manipulating the conversation, mind you, but rather like someone who simply knows intuitively that the conversation need not be manipulated: it will go the way he wants! And in that, he seemed beyond confident; he seemed bored. He bit the end off of a fresh cigar and spat it out. All at once, the pigeons swooped down and began milling about. This seemed to draw the large bird’s attention.

  Cragpow watched the pigeons, cocking his head to the side.

  Lyons jammed the cigar into his mouth. “The facility is at the end of the old Carrackmines logging road that turns off Route 29.” He licked the cigar with a grey tongue.

  Davies looked at Lyons, genuinely surprised. “Carrackmines?” he repeated. “Nobody’s used that for years.” He shook his head slightly.

  “That’s right,” Lyons said, almost proudly. And then, more quietly, “Not since the first phase of the plan.”

  “But,” Davies looked away, staring at the ground in front of them. His brow creased as he searched through his mind. “That leads to Devil’s Head, and the old Haydesgate property. That property’s been caught up in litigation for almost two decades. How did you get access— Who are you?” Davies finally blurted out.

  “Let’s just say,” Lyons smiled, “I’ve visited a lot of park benches in my time.” Then, he added, “Congressman.”

  Davies’ furrowed brow released and his mouth hung open with understanding.

  Was Lyons saying what he thought he was saying?

  How many politicians? he wondered.

  How many public officials?

  How many philanthropists?

  How long had Lyons been at work?

  And then, once again giving the impression he could read Davies’ every thought, Lyons simply said, “S.I.N. is on the rise, Congressman.” With that, Lyons slapped Davies on the knee one time. Hard. Then he stood, took in a deep draught of air, and let it out again. “Yep!” he said loudly: “S.I.N. is on the rise.” Lyons looked at Davies once more, took the cigar from his mouth, and pointed at him with it. “And you,” he said, smiling, “are doing your part.”

  “And . . . if I refuse?” Davies responded abruptly, standing himself. Perhaps he hoped to sound strong and defiant in this. In reality, he sounded terrified. Standing next to Lyons, Davies felt small and weak. For the first time, Davies thought he might be beginning to understand just how huge and diabolical a plot Lou Lyons was orchestrating.

  Lou Lyons only looked at Davies from behind those dark sunglasses for a moment. Then, he stepped towards Davies. It seemed to Davies that Lyons loomed over him, blocking out all light. And from where it sat, still perched upon his shoulder, Lyons’ own cold gaze was mimicked by the single red eye of the large bird.

  “You don’t understand, Davies,” Lyons whispered. He placed his hands on Davies’ shoulders. To Davies, it seemed that Lyons’ touch could be felt—ice-cold—through his own wrinkled sports jacket. “You have no idea.” Lyons gently moved Davies back and forth. “You won’t refuse.” Lyons shook his head. “You won’t want to.” Smiling one last time, Lou Lyons hissed, “Trust me.” With that, he turned and started back up the park path, smoke billowing behind him like a freight train from his cigar.

  Funny . . . Davies couldn’t remember Lyons ever actually lighting it.

  Davies sat down once again on the bench, still watching Lyons go. Eventually, the large bird took flight from Lyons’ shoulder and disappeared like a specter under the dark branches that hung out over the pathway before them. But not before it looked, to Davies, like Lyons leaned and whispered something to the fowl beast. As Lyons passed the two lingering D-Men, they fell in line behind him obediently. Davies heard Lyons’ voice coming back to him loudly, “Thank you very much for your contribution, Congressman!” Lyons raised one hand over his head, but didn’t look back. If Davies could have seen his face, he would have seen that Lyons was smiling. “You’re doing your part to keep S.I.N. alive and well!”

  Quietly, Congressman Davies lowered his face into his hands and felt very, very tired. He stayed that way for a while, his mind spinning. A flat, plopping sound made Davies look up and around. On the shoulder of his sports coat was a fresh, white spatter of bird excrement. He looked overhead and saw a dark rook perched on a branch high above him. It wasn’t looking at him, but somehow Davies couldn’t help but think the bird had done it on purpose.

  “Perfect,” Davies muttered to himself, distantly remembering hearing that such a thing was supposed to signal good fortune. But fortunate was just about the last thing Congressman Roy Davies felt today. Today, in fact, he felt trapped—trapped in the web of S.I.N.

  Sighing deeply, Congressman Davies stood and ambled away, making sure to go in the opposite direction Lou Lyons had gone.

  High overhead, safely ensconced within a crook of oak branches, a single white Dove had watched the whole exchange intently, listening. As the elahs walked away down the park pathway, the large Dove fluttered his wings and took to the sky.

  Spirit had what he came for.

  §

  Midway Park was huge, covering several city blocks and hosting scores of people every day. As Congressman Davies and Lou Lyons concluded their “discussion” in one part of the park, in another place there sat a single young woman in a tan, Columbo-esque trench coat, a beret cocked to one side. She had just bookmarked her poetry collection at G.K. Chesterton’s “The Donkey,” and now threw crust from her homemade peanut butter sandwich to a single black and white Wagtail. No other birds had gathered.

  The Wagtail, however, chirped quite happily over this.

  “Now this is sad,” she muttered. “Even the pigeons don’t want anything to do with me.” From below, the Wagtail chirped once and looked up at her briefly. “Sorry little guy,” she said, and threw another piece of crust. “No offense. It’s just been a bad week. If I don’t find a story soon, I’m gonna need to get used to peanut butter. ‘Cause it’s all I’ll be able to afford!”

  Her name was Angel Michaels. She worked for a small local newspaper called The Messenger. She had worked there for several years now, and had been elevated to the status of local hero when, at the age of 18, she exposed the illegal logging site and subsequent toxic waste dump off Route 29, The Coolmine Road.

  But that was over twenty years ago! she lamented to herself.

  It seemed she hadn’t had a good story in years. The only thing that had kept her going this long was her name. Again, it was that “local-hero” thing. Now, most of the people who even remembered that story had either moved away or were dead. And with The Messenger under new management, let’s face it, her name was not what it used to be. “I need a story,” she whispered to the quiet of Midway Park, and looked around, squinting somewhat against the cool, pale afternoon glare. “There’s got to be a story out there somewhere. And not just a story for story’s sake,” she added, conversing with herself, as she often would. “Something with a purpose. Something that people need to hear about. Something to remind me of why I even started doing this to begin with.”

  Michaels sat for a few moments more, s
taring, her lips pursed tightly and her cheeks puffed out with air, as she often did when deep in thought. She sighed and threw her last piece of crust to the Wagtail. She sank down, closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the damp wood of the park bench, letting the water slowly seep through her thick, brunette hair to her skin. It didn’t matter. She probably wouldn’t go back to the office after lunch.

  “Why should I?” she said aloud. There was no reason to.

  “What I ought to be doing is be out looking for a story.” But there was no motivation, no urgency to her words. No . . . “Inspiration,” Michaels whispered softly. As she looked up into the pale sky, suddenly a large white Dove flew overhead. It was low in the sky. And in the cool silence of Midway Park, away from the sounds of the city, Michaels could hear its wings beating against the air. Suddenly, the Wagtail chirped loudly, arresting Michaels’ attention. She looked down quickly. The Wagtail was no longer on the ground in front of the bench. Now, it was perched on the end of the bench itself, looking directly at her. Its head was cocked to one side, as though it had been listening. For a moment, these two regarded each other, and Angel Michaels smiled. But then, as the large white Dove flew on into the distance, the Wagtail looked after it and took to the sky and seemed to fly after the Dove. Michaels watched as the Wagtail flew away, suddenly feeling very lonely, as if she had lost a friend.

  For some time afterward, Michaels sat and looked in the direction where the two birds flew, thinking. After a while she stood, breathed deeply of the cool air, shoved her hands into her trench coat pockets, and started to walk slowly. The path was damp. The park was relatively empty today. She looked up.

  “Inspiration,” she muttered to herself again; and then, “Theopnuestos.” It was the Greek word from which we get the English word “inspiration”.

  Michaels had always loved words; had always loved communicating. That was why she started writing to begin with. This, of course, led her to start thinking about a story again. Michaels didn’t want to just write for the sake of writing. She wanted to communicate something, something important. She wanted to bring a message, like the very name her newspaper suggested. All she had been able to do recently was report on the string of animal burglaries taking place all over. It was relatively interesting, but not exactly what she would consider earth-shattering news. She bit her bottom lip—another habit she had when deep in thought—and walked for a while, enjoying the dreary, overcast solitude of Midway Park.