Conspiracy of Angels Read Online Free Page A

that had got the Harley running in the first place, so I didn’t dare turn it off.
    “Well, crap,” I muttered to myself, glancing around the lot. No one in sight. Empty fields stretching to either side. “Not much choice,” I observed with a shrug. Then I coasted up to a display at the front of the building.
    Dying mums in battered plastic containers sat beside a boldly lettered sign proclaiming them “On Sale.” I maneuvered the motorcycle close to the half-dead flowers and set the kickstand, leaving the vintage machine idling in neutral. The area was brightly lit, and I hoped this would have the effect of deterring potential thieves, rather than calling attention to the unattended bike. Reluctantly stepping away from it, I cast a glance heavenward.
    “If you’ve got any mercy at all, let this thing be here when I get back.”
    Regarding the mute expanse of the sky, I was overcome with a near-crushing awareness that nothing up there was listening to me. I blinked with the force of it, tearing my eyes away from the reflective bellies of the clouds. Mercifully, the feeling passed. Swiping at some of the cornfield detritus still lingering on my jacket and in my hair, I scowled.
    “Boots now,” I told myself. “Existential meltdown later.” I padded into the store, leaving russet smears on the tile as I went.
    Management was going to love me.
    As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. No one I encountered was out to win any beauty pageants. There were three solitary souls browsing the aisles, and if I’d been clean-shaven and less rumpled, I would have stood out more. I kept my head down anyway, and headed for the footwear section.
    Looking over a rack of reasonably sturdy work boots—“Prices Slashed! Now only 29.95!”—I realized that I had no idea what size I wore. The amnesia thing was really starting to get on my nerves.
    I yanked off what was left of my socks and studied my poor abused feet.
Probably a twelve.
I had long, thin toes to match my long, thin fingers, so maybe it was more like a thirteen. I grabbed a three-pack of athletic socks and tore a pair from the plastic. Looking around for sales associates or security cameras, I eased my feet into the fresh socks, then started trying on boots.
    After three attempts I got the right size, or at least close enough. I laced up the boots, grabbed the box and the remaining socks, and carried them over toward the single open register. No one looked twice, not even the gaunt-faced fellow wearing deer-hunter orange who was walking in circles near the housewares, muttering to himself about elephant guns.
    I
so
didn’t want to know.
    At the counter, the bleary-eyed girl with a torn-out eyebrow piercing held up the empty shoebox and shook it at me.
    “I gotta scan the boots for you to buy them.” She almost touched my hand and I jerked back. She gaped at me like a carp.
    “That’s too bad,” I said impatiently. “I’m wearing them. That’s why I brought the box.”
    “But the box is empty,” she argued.
    “That’s because I’m wearing them!” I said again. We went round and round like this for a couple of minutes, and it felt like being caught in the loop of some old comedy, only it didn’t feel at all funny. I gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to reach over the counter and shake her.
    Elephant-gun man began wandering toward the register, and he looked way too interested in our conversation.
    “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice down, “I wrecked my boots out in the mud. I got socks here and I got boots. The boots came in that box, which has a bar code. All you have to do is scan the fucking bar code. I just want to pay and get out of here.”
    Frowning, she set the empty box down and picked up the three-pack of athletic socks. She poked at the ragged edges where I’d torn open the packaging. “This is already open. You wanna go back and get a new one?”
    I felt my eye twitch.
    “It’s fine,” I managed. “Just scan it, and scan