A Knight of the Word

CHAPTER 22

John Ross went up to his apartment and stood at the window looking down at the ruins of Fresh Start, fuming. A crew from the fire marshall's office was picking its way carefully through the debris, searching for dues. He scanned the busy streets for Andrew Wren, but the reporter was nowhere to be seen.

Why was the demon working so hard to discredit him? What did it hope to gain?

Where the Wiz was concerned, the answer was obvious. The demon hoped that by discrediting Simon, it would derail the progress of his programs. If enough doubt was cast and suspicion raised as to the integrity of the work being lone at Fresh Start and Pass/Go, donors would pull bade, political and celebrity sponsors would disappear, and support from the public would shift to another cause. Worse, it would reflect on programs assisting the homeless all across the country. It was typical demon mischief, a sowing of discontent that, given enough time and space, would reap anarchy.

The more difficult question was why the demon had chosen to paint him with the same brush. What was the point? Was this phoney theft charge supposed to send him into a tailspin that would lead to an alliance with the Void? Given that the demon intended to subvert him and claim his magic, this business of manipulating bank accounts and transfers seemed an odd way to go about it.

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. It might explain the fire, though. Burning down fresh Start at the same time Simon Lawrence was being discredited would only add to the confusion.

If the plan was to bring down Simon and put an end to his programs, an attack from more than one front made sense.

He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets angrily. He wanted to walk right over to Pass/Go and deal with his suspicions. But he knew there wasn't really anything he could do. Andrew Wren was still in the middle of his investigation. He was checking signatures and interviewing bank personnel. Maybe the signatures wouldn't match. Certainly the bank people wouldn't remember seeing either him or Simon.

Except, he remembered suddenly, the demon was a changeling and could have disguised itself as either of them.

He turned away from the window and stared at the interior of the apartment in frustration. The best thing he could do was to follow through on his promise to Nest and get out of town. Do that, put a little distance between himself and whatever machinations the demon was engaged in, and take x fresh look at things in a few days.

Don't take any chances with the events of the dream.

He glanced at his watch. It was already approaching four o'clock, and the festivities at the Seattle Art Museum were scheduled to begin at six sharp.

Dropping into his favourite wing chair, he dialled Pass/Go and asked for Stefanie. Told that she was in a meeting, he left a message for her to call him.

He went into the bedroom, pulled his duffel bag out of the closet, and began to pack. It didn't take long. There wasn't much packing to do for this sort of trip, and he didn't have much to choose from in any case. It gave him pause when he realised how little he owned. The truth was, he had never stopped living as if he were just passing through and might be catching the morning bus to some other place.

He was reading a magazine when the door burst open and Stefanie stalked into the room and threw a clump of papers into his lap.

`Explain this, John!' she demanded, coldly, standing rigid with fury before him.

He looked down at the papers, already knowing what they were. Photocopies of the bank transfers Andrew Wren had shown him earlier. He looked up again. `I don't know anything about these accounts. They aren't mine.'

`Your signature is all over them!'

He met her gaze squarely. 'Stef, I didn't steal a penny. That's not my signature. Those aren't my accounts. I told the same thing to Andrew Wren when he asked me about it an hour ago. I wouldn't do anything like this.'

Sloe stared at him silently, searching his face.

'Stef, I wouldn't'

All the anger drained away, and she bent down to kiss him. `I know. I told Simon the wane thing. I just wanted to hear you say it'

She put her hands on his shoulders and ran them down his arms, her tousled black hair falling over her battered face. Then she knelt before him, her eyes lifting to find his. I'm sorry. This hasn't been a good day'

You don't know the half of it, he thought to himself. `I was thinking we might go away for a few days, let things sort themselves out.'

She smiled up at him sadly. ~A few days, a few weeks, a few months, we can take as much time as we want. 'We're out of a job:

He felt his throat tighten. 'What?'

'Simon fired you. When I objected and he wouldn't change his mind, I quit' She shrugged.

He shook his head in disbelief. `Why would Simon fire me without giving me a chance to explain?'

'He's cutting his losses, John. It's the smart thing to do' Her dark eyes studied him. `He's frightened. He's angry. A lot of bad things are happening all at ante, and he has to do something to contain the damage. If word of this leaks to the mayor's office or the local press, it's all over for Simon'

'So his solution is to fire me?'

'That's what I asked him' She brushed her hair aside, her mouth right and angry. Then she stood up and walked across the room and threw herself on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. `There's nothing back yet on the transfer signatures, and no one he's talked to at the banks involved remembers anything about who opened the accounts. But when Wren suggested the possibility that you were trying to set Simon up, Simon bought into it. He thinks you're responsible, and he wants to distance himself from you right now before you become a liability he can't explain'

She looked over at him. `There's more. He claims he came by last night after I left. He claims he found you drunk and irrational, and you threatened him. I told him that wasn't possible, that you weren't drinking. I told him you were sick and half asleep when I left you, so maybe he misinterpreted what he heard. He refused to listen' She exhaled sharply, her bitterness evident. `He fired you, just like that. So I quit, too.'

Ross was staring at the space between them, stunned. First the business of the demon hunting him, then Andrew Wren's accusations, and now this. He felt as if he was caught in some sort of diabolical whirlpool that was sucking him under where he couldn't breathe.

`This isn't like Simon, John' Stef was saying. `This isn't like him at all. He hasn't been the same lately. I don't know what the problem is, but it's almost as if he's someone else completely.'

Ross was thinking the same thing. A glimmer of suspicion had surfaced inside, hot and fierce. It couldn't be, he was thinking. Not Simon. Not the Wiz.

Stef crossed her long legs and stared doom the length of her body at her feet. `I don't understand what he's thinking anymore'

Ross looked at her. `How did his T V interview go last night?' he asked casually.

She pursed her lips. `It didn't. He cancelled it. I didn't even find out until I showed up and no one was there. That's when I came back here and found you collapsed on the couch. I hauled you off to bed and read my book in the living room until around midnight when I woke you about the fire'

His suspicion burned inside like an inferno.

`You know that message you got over the phone from Nest Freemark? The one

about meeting her in West Seattle? Did you mention it to anyone else? Or could anyone else have overheard?'

Stefanie sat up slowly, puzzled. `I don't know. Why?'

`Just think about it. It might be important'

She was silent a moment. `Well, Simon knew, I guess. He was there talking with me when I took Nest's call. He asked me afterward what it was about, and I said it was from Nest and she wanted you to meet her in Lincoln Park. He laughed, said it was an odd place to meet someone. I said it had something to do with a friend of somebody named Pick'

Ross felt the blood drain from his face.

Stef sat up slowly, her brow furrowing with concern. `John, what's going on?'

He shook his head. Simon Lawrence knew about the meeting with Nest. If he was the demon, he had time and opportunity to get over there, intercept her at her meeting with the forest creatures, and still get back to set the fire at Fresh Start.

He almost laughed out loud. No, this was ridiculous!

But the idea had taken root. Who was in a better position than Simon Lawrence to sabotage the work of Fresh Start and Pass/Go? Simon was the whole program. If he came under suspicion, if he was forced to quit, if–just suppose now–he disappeared at a crucial juncture in the investigation, everything would go down the drain. There would be national coverage. Every homeless program in the country would be adversely affected.

`John?' Stef was on her feet. She looked frightened.

He smiled. `It's all right, I'm just thinking. Would you mind getting me a root beer from the fridge?'

She nodded, smiling back at him uncertainly. He waited until she was out of the roam, then resumed his deliberation. Simon Lawrence as the demon it made a certain amount of sense. Simon could ruin his own programs. He could sabotage homeless programs nationwide by wrecking his own. And he was in a great position to wreck Ross's life, as well. He could implicate him in the theft of corporate funds, terminate his jab, maybe even have him sent to prison. If the demon intended to turn him to the Void's service, it would be a perfect place to begin.

It might even cost him his relationship with Stef.

His head throbbed fiercely. One misstep was all it took, the Lady had cautioned. One misstep that led to another. He considered the possibility that the demon might take that step for him. It wasn't too difficult to imagine.

But Simon Lawrence? He still couldn't bring himself to accept that the Wiz was a demon.

Stefanie re–entered the room. He came to his feet, facing her. `Stef, I can't go away just yet. I have to do something first. I have to see Simon.'

She sighed. `John, no'

He took hold of her arms and held her gently, but firmly, in place. `I can call him up right now, or I can just go over. It won't take but a moment'

She shook her head, her eyes angry. `It wont do you any gaol, John. He's made up his mind. I already argued your case for you, and it didn't change anything'

He studied her face, thinking she was right, that it was pointless. `I have to try; he insulted any–way. 'I have to make the attempt myself. I'll be right back'

She grabbed his arm a5 he started to turn away. `John, he's not even there. He's already gone down to the art museum to help put things in place for tonight's benefit. He's doing interviews and … Look, forget this. Let it go. Give me five minutes to pack a bag and we're out of here. We'll deal with it when we get back, okay?'

But he was already committed. He could not just walk away, not even for three or four days. He had to know the truth about Simon. He had no idea how he was going to find it out, but he could at least speak with him face–to–face and see how he responded.

Then a very strange thought occurred to him. What if the dream about killing the Wizard of Oz, wasn't a warning at all? What if it were an admonition? Perhaps he had been mistaken about the purpose of the dream, and he was having it not because he was supposed to avoid the Wiz, but because he was supposed to go after him. His dreams of the future had been windows into mistakes that had been made in the present and might yet be corrected. He had assumed this was the case here. But he was no longer a Knight of the Word, and it was possible this dream, the only dream he was having anymore, the one he had experienced so often, was meant to work in a different way.

Maybe he was supposed to kill Simon Lawrence because Simon was a demon.

It was a stretch, by any measure, and he had no way of knowing if it were so. But if Simon was a demon, it would give new meaning to his dream. It would lend it a purpose and a reason for being that had been missing before.

Stefanie was still holding the root beer. He looked down at it and shook his head. `I've changed my mind. I don't want it after all'

She put her free hand on his arm. `John'

'Stef, I'm going down to the art museum to find Simon. I won't be long. I just want to ask him why he didn't wait a little longer. I just want to hear him tell me why he wont give me the benefit of the doubt'

She set the can of root beer down on the table. `John, don't do this'

`What can it hurt'

"Your pride, for one thing: She was seething. Her exquisite features were 'calm and settled, but her eyes were angry. `You don't have anything to prove to Simon Lawrence, certainly not anything more than he should have to prove to you. Those are his signatures an those bank accounts, too. Why isn't it just as likely he's to blame?'

Ross put his, finger to her lips. `Because he's the Wiz, and I'm not'

She shook her head vehemently, her anger edging loser to a breakout. `I don't care who he is. You don't have to prove anything.'

"I just want to talk with him."

She didn't saw anything for a moment, studying him with a mix of resignation and dismay, as if realising all the arguments in the world had been suddenly rendered useless. `I'm not going to change your mind on this, am I?'

He smiled, trying to take the edge off the moment. `No, but I love you for trying. Go pack your bag. Wait for me. I'll be back inside of an hour, and then we'll go'

He kissed her mouth, then walked over to the front closet and pulled on his greatcoat. She was still standing there, staring after him, as he went out the door.

Nest Freemark rode back into the city from the airport in impatient silence, staring out at the sun as it dropped westward toward the Olympics. It was already growing dark, the days shortened down to a little more than eight hours, the nights lengthening in response to the coming of the winter solstice, Shadows crept and pooled all across the wooded slopes of the city's hills, swallowing up the last of the light.

She had thought to call ahead, to reach Ross by telephone, but what she had to say would be better coming from her in person. He might believe her then. She might stand a chance of convincing him.

She exhaled wearily, peering out at the descending, dark. This was going to be a much harder task than the one the Lady had given her.

The taxi rolled onto the off–ramp at Seneca and down to Pioneer Square. The district's turn–of–the–century lamps were already lit, the shadows of the city's tall buildings stretching dark fingers to gather in dwindling slivers of daylight. The taxi pulled up at the curb beside the burned–out hulk of Fresh Start, and she paid the driver and jumped out, bag in hand. The taxi -drove away, and she stood there, gathering her thoughts. She realized how cold it had gotten, a brisk wind whipping out of the northwest down Second Avenue's broad corridor, and she slipped hurriedly into her new jacket.

She turned and looked across the intersection at Waterfall Park and the apartment building where John Ross lived with Stefanie Winslow. The wind buffeted her gangly form as she stood there and tried to decide what she should do.

Finally, she picked up her bag and turned the corner to walk up Main Street to Pass/Go. She entered the reception area and glanced around. Except for the lady working the intake desk, the room was empty.

She moved over to the desk, taking several deep breaths to slow the pounding of her heart, masking her trepidation and urgency with a smile. `Is John Ross here?' she asked.

The woman at the desk shook her head without looking up. She seemed anxious to stick with her paperwork. 'He didn't come in today. Can I help you?'

`My name is Nest Freemark. I'm a friend. I need to speak with him right away. It's rather urgent. Can you give him a call for me at his apartment? Or would you let me have his number?'

The woman smiled in a way that let Nest know right off the bat she wasn't about to do either. 'I'm sorry, but our policy is-'

'Well, look who's back!' Della Jenkins strolled into the room, smiling like this was the best thing that had happened all day. `I thought you was flying home, Nest Freemark. What re you doing, back in my kitchen?'

She saw Nest's face, and the smile faded away. `Good gracious, look at you! If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd been in a cat fight with Stef Winslow: She looks just the same!'

Nest flinched as if she had been struck. `I'm sorry to barge in like this„ but something's came up and I really need to find John'

'Lord, if this isn't a day for finding John! Everyone wants to find John! You'd think he'd won the lottery or something. He hasn't, has he? 'Cause if he has, I want to be sure I get my share. Marilyn, let me use the phone there, sweetie'

Della moved the woman at the intake desk out of the picture with an easy exercise of authority that didn't leave much room for doubt as to who was boss. She picked up the receiver, punched in a number, and waited, Listening. After a long time, she set the receiver

'John's been home all day, far as I know. He's stayed clear of here, and I don't expect him in. Stefanie's gone, too. Left here a short time ago. There's no answer at the apartment, so maybe they're out together somewhere'

Nest nodded, her mind racing over the possibilities. Had they left town? Had John Ross done as he promised? She didn't think so. She didn't think there was a prayer of that happening. He would still be in the city …

`Is Mr. Lawrence here?' she asked quickly.

'Oh, no, he's gone, too' Delta answered, surrendering her seat to Marilyn once more. She came around the desk and put her finger to the side of her cheek. `You know, Nest-.oh, I do love that name! Nest! Anyway, Nest, John might be down at the art museum, helping set up for tonight. That's where Simon's gone, so maybe John's gone there, too'

Nest was already starting for the door, shouldering her bag. `Thanks, Della. Maybe you're right:

'You want me to call and ask?'

`No, that's okay, I'll just go down. If John shows up here or calls in, tell him fm looking for him and it's really important'

`Okay' Delta made a face. `Here, where are you going with that bag? You don't want to be carrying that all over the place. You leave it with me, I'll keep it safe'

Nest came back and handed her bag to the bag woman. `Thanks again. I'll see you'

She raced across the lobby, thinking, I'm going to be too late, I'm not going to be in time!

'Slow down, for goodness sake, this ain't the fifty–yard dash!' Della called after her, but she was already out the door.

Andrew Wren spent the remainder of the afternoon following investigative roadways that all turned into dead ends. He was not discouraged, though. Investigative reporting required patience and bulldog determination, and he had an abundance of bath. If the research took until Christmas, that was all right with him. What wasn't all right was the way his instincts were acting. He trusted his instincts, and up until this morning they had been doing just fine. They had told him the anonymous reports of wrongdoing at Fresh Start were worth following up. They had told him the transfer records that had been slipped under his door were the real thing.

But what they were telling him now, barely eighteen hours later, was that something about all this was screwy.

For one thing, even though he had proof of the funds transfers from the corporate accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go to the private accounts of Simon Lawrence and John Ross, he couldn't find a pattern that made any sense. The withdrawals and deposits were regular, but the amounts transferred were too low given the amounts that might have been transferred from the money on hand. Sure, you wouldn't take too much, because you didn't want to draw attention. But you wouldn't take too little either, and in several cases it appeared this was exactly what the Wiz and Mr. Ross had done.

Then there was the matter of identifying the thieves. No one at any of the various banks could remember ever seeing either Mr. Lawrence or Mr. Ross make a deposit. But some of the deposits had been made in person, not by mail. Andrew Wren had been circumspect in making his inquiries, cloaking them in a series of charades designed to deflect the real reason for his interest. But not one teller or officer who had conducted the personal transactions could remember ever seeing either man come in.

But it was in the area of his personal contact with the two men he was investigating that his instincts were really acting up, telling him that the two men didn't do it. When someone was guilty of something, he could almost always tell. His instincts lit up like a scoreboard after a home run, and he just knew. But even after bracing bath Simon and John Ross on the matter, his instincts refused to celebrate. Maybe they just weren't registering the truth of things this time out, but he didn't like it that they weren't flashing even a little.

Well, tomorrow was another day, and tonight was the gala event at the Seattle Art Museum, and he was anxious to see if he might learn something there. It wasn't an unrealistic expectation, given the circumstances. He would have another shot at both the Wiz and Ross, since both were expected to attend. He would have a good chance to talk with their friends and maybe even one or two of their enemies. One could always hope.

He reached the Westin just after five and rode up to his room in an otherwise empty elevator. He unlocked his door, slipped out of his rumpled jacket, and went into the bathroom to wash his face and hands and brush his teeth. When he came out again, he located his invitation, dropped it on top of his jacket, and poured himself a short glass of scotch from what remained of last night's bottle.

Then he sat down next to the phone and called Marty at the lab in New York. He let it ring. It was three hours later there, but Marty often worked late when there was no one around to interrupt. Besides, he knew Wren was anxious for a quick report.

On the seventh ring, Marty picked up. `Lab Works'

`Hello, Marty? It's Andrew. How are you coming?'

'I'm done.'

Wren straightened. He'd sent Marty the transfer records by fax for signature comparison late that morning, marked `Urgent' in bold letters, but he hadn't really expected anything for another day.

`Andrew? You there?' Marty sounded impatient.

`I'm here. What did you find?'

`They don't match. Good forgeries, very close to the real thing, but phoney. In some cases the signatures were just tracings. Good enough to pass at first glance, but nothing that would stand up in court. These boys are being had'

Andrew Wren stared into space. `Damn,' he muttered.

Marty chuckled. `I thought you'd like that. But hang on a second, there's more. I checked the forgeries against all the other signatures you sent–friends, acquaintances, fellow workers; so on and so forth:

He paused meaningfully. `Yeah, so?' Wren prodded

`So while there isn't a match there either, there is a singular

characteristic in one other persons writing style that suggests you might have a new suspect. Again, not enough to stand up in court, but enough to make me sit up and take notice. It only appears on the signatures copied freehand, not on the ones traced, which is good because it's their freehand writing we're interested in'

Wren took a long drink of his scotch. 'Enough with the build up, Marty. Whose signature is it?'