Continent. “Y’know we clandestine types wallow in the traditions of argot and subterfuge. It’s genetic.”
“Ah.”
“You know, Conrad, I was kinda worried you weren’t going to call in. Thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
“No worries, Rob. I’ll have your money.”
“Oh, don’t I know that. Where you headed, bud?”
“West.”
“Uh-huh. Where to?”
“There are sites in Washington. I might visit those.” Conrad smiled and his lips split, dribbled blood down his chin into the receiver. Marsh had him pigeonholed as a wannabe naturalist. That was fine, that was convenient, it kept them off his back. The Mima Mounds. The Juniper Dunes. The Horse Cliffs. A dozen others, most of them nameless and unmapped. He’d trod the ground of those places; camped in their primordial circumferences and watched star-fields blaze like iron in a crucible; burned innumerable rolls of film and waited for epiphanies that yet eluded him. Going back to those hallowed sites wasn’t likely to make a difference; the key to the whole mess was surely elsewhere in an exotic region, upon a darksome shore. However, he had to give Marsh something. Otherwise, Marsh would take what he wanted.
“Shouldn’t you be training?”
“I’m always training.”
“And that’s it. Huh.”
“I’m just driving.” Conrad wasn’t an artful liar; bluntness was his weapon of choice. However, when dealing with the likes of Marsh he’d gradually learned to adopt cursory camouflage, to blend in with his current habitat, an ant trundling in the shadow of aardvarks. Huh, I’m becoming proficient. Should’ve gone into law.
“Uh-huh. Say, bud. People came by your house yesterday. The New England house.”
“Who?” Conrad had almost forgotten about that place—monumentally gothic, surrounded by overgrown gardens and fieldstone walls; he hadn’t been there in several years. An industrialist fan had given it to him as a present. Conrad had owned several homes before liquidating them to fuel his search for Imogene. Gifts from patrons and admirers. Cars too; and planes. All of it gone now, except for the New England house, a cabin in Washington State.
“People. We called in an eye in the sky and ran the pics—nada. They weren’t ours and they weren’t Company guys; probably foreign. Got any foreign friends?”
“I don’t know them.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh. Stranger things, I guess.”
“I’m just driving.”
“Sure, sure. Could be a coincidence. Maybe whoever owned that house before had some heat. That could be the deal.”
“I don’t know them.” The conversation compounded Conrad’s headache; his brow was slick and feverish. He feared the tension would prompt him to do something ill-advised. Occasionally, nerves caused him to burst into maniacal laughter. He had to get off the phone.
“Uh-huh, could be a coincidence. That’s how a pal of mine got cashiered. I ever tell you that story? No? Sullivan ran an LP in Lima. Boring stuff, I promise you that. Not much of a health risk. Except Sully went into the wrong nightclub to get drunk and came out at exactly the wrong time; somebody thought he looked like somebody else who was also there, it was dark, and blah, blah, blah. Piece of piano wire will fit around anybody’s neck if you cut it long enough.”
“I don’t know them.”
“You’re just driving, right?”
“Right.”
“Uh-huh. Singh can meet you. He’s got business in the area. If you don’t hear from him in a few hours—”
“I’ll call back.”
“At the other number.”
“Okay.”
Marsh disconnected.
Conrad stared into the receiver. The concave oval of miniature black holes radiated waves of soft static like heat shimmering from desert highway.
He made another call, this one to some medical technicians affiliated with the Pageant and told them when and where the ludus would be, then hung up and slouched into a dollar store, bought a bag of aspirin packets and three bottles of
“Ah.”
“You know, Conrad, I was kinda worried you weren’t going to call in. Thought maybe you’d forgotten.”
“No worries, Rob. I’ll have your money.”
“Oh, don’t I know that. Where you headed, bud?”
“West.”
“Uh-huh. Where to?”
“There are sites in Washington. I might visit those.” Conrad smiled and his lips split, dribbled blood down his chin into the receiver. Marsh had him pigeonholed as a wannabe naturalist. That was fine, that was convenient, it kept them off his back. The Mima Mounds. The Juniper Dunes. The Horse Cliffs. A dozen others, most of them nameless and unmapped. He’d trod the ground of those places; camped in their primordial circumferences and watched star-fields blaze like iron in a crucible; burned innumerable rolls of film and waited for epiphanies that yet eluded him. Going back to those hallowed sites wasn’t likely to make a difference; the key to the whole mess was surely elsewhere in an exotic region, upon a darksome shore. However, he had to give Marsh something. Otherwise, Marsh would take what he wanted.
“Shouldn’t you be training?”
“I’m always training.”
“And that’s it. Huh.”
“I’m just driving.” Conrad wasn’t an artful liar; bluntness was his weapon of choice. However, when dealing with the likes of Marsh he’d gradually learned to adopt cursory camouflage, to blend in with his current habitat, an ant trundling in the shadow of aardvarks. Huh, I’m becoming proficient. Should’ve gone into law.
“Uh-huh. Say, bud. People came by your house yesterday. The New England house.”
“Who?” Conrad had almost forgotten about that place—monumentally gothic, surrounded by overgrown gardens and fieldstone walls; he hadn’t been there in several years. An industrialist fan had given it to him as a present. Conrad had owned several homes before liquidating them to fuel his search for Imogene. Gifts from patrons and admirers. Cars too; and planes. All of it gone now, except for the New England house, a cabin in Washington State.
“People. We called in an eye in the sky and ran the pics—nada. They weren’t ours and they weren’t Company guys; probably foreign. Got any foreign friends?”
“I don’t know them.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh. Stranger things, I guess.”
“I’m just driving.”
“Sure, sure. Could be a coincidence. Maybe whoever owned that house before had some heat. That could be the deal.”
“I don’t know them.” The conversation compounded Conrad’s headache; his brow was slick and feverish. He feared the tension would prompt him to do something ill-advised. Occasionally, nerves caused him to burst into maniacal laughter. He had to get off the phone.
“Uh-huh, could be a coincidence. That’s how a pal of mine got cashiered. I ever tell you that story? No? Sullivan ran an LP in Lima. Boring stuff, I promise you that. Not much of a health risk. Except Sully went into the wrong nightclub to get drunk and came out at exactly the wrong time; somebody thought he looked like somebody else who was also there, it was dark, and blah, blah, blah. Piece of piano wire will fit around anybody’s neck if you cut it long enough.”
“I don’t know them.”
“You’re just driving, right?”
“Right.”
“Uh-huh. Singh can meet you. He’s got business in the area. If you don’t hear from him in a few hours—”
“I’ll call back.”
“At the other number.”
“Okay.”
Marsh disconnected.
Conrad stared into the receiver. The concave oval of miniature black holes radiated waves of soft static like heat shimmering from desert highway.
He made another call, this one to some medical technicians affiliated with the Pageant and told them when and where the ludus would be, then hung up and slouched into a dollar store, bought a bag of aspirin packets and three bottles of
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