A Knight of the Word

CHAPTER 7

Andrew Wren stood looking out the window of the Wiz's corner office at the derelicts occupying space in Occidental Park across the way. They slouched on benches, slept curled up in old blankets in tree wells, and huddled on the low steps and curbing that differentiated the various concrete and flagstone levels of the open space. They drank from bottles concealed in paper sacks, exchanged tokens and pennies, and stared into space. Tourists and shoppers gave them a wide berth. Almost no one looked at them. A pair of cops on bicycles surveyed the scene with wary eyes, then moved over to speak to a man staggering out of a doorway leading to a card shop. Pale afternoon sunlight peeked through masses of cumulous clouds an their way to distant places.

Wren turned away. Simon Lawrence was seated at his desk, talking on the phone to the mayor about Wednesday evening's festivities apt die Seattle Art Museum, The mayor was making the official announcement of the dedication an behalf of the city. An abandoned apartment building just across the. street had been purchased by the city and was being donated to Fresh Start to provide additional housing for homeless women and children. Donations had been pledged that would cover needed renovations to the interior. The mane,, would bring the building up to code and provide sleeping rooms, a kitchen, dining roam, and administrative offices for staff and volunteers, Persuading the city to dedicate the building and land had taken the better part of two years. Raising the money necessary to make the dedication meaningful had taken almost as long. It was, all in all, a terrific coup.

Andrew Wren looked down at his shoes. The Wizard of Oz had done it again. But at what cost to himself and the organisations he had founded? That was the truth Wren had come all the way from New York to discover.

He was a burly, slow–moving man with a thatch of unruly, grizzled brown hair that refused to be tamed and stuck out every which way no matter what was done to it. The clothes he wore were rumpled and well used, the kind that let him be comfortable while he worked, that gave him an unintimidating, slightly shabby look. He carried a worn leather briefcase in which he kept his notepads, source logs, and whatever book he was currently reading, together with a secret stash of bagged nuts and candy that he used to sustain himself when meals were missed or forgotten in the heat of his work. He had a round, kindly face with bushy eyebrows, heavy cheeks, and he wore glasses that tended to slide down his nose when he bent forward to listen to compensate for his failing hearing. He was almost fifty, but he looked as if he could just as easily be sixty. He could have been a college professor or a favourite uncle or a writer of charming anecdotes and pithy sayings that stayed with you and made you smile when you thought back on them.

But he wasn't any of these things. His worn, familiar teddybear look was what made him so effective at what he did. He looked harmless and mildly confused, but how he looked was dangerously deceptive. Andrew Wren was a bulldog when it came to ferreting out the truth. He was relentless in getting to the bottom of things. Investigative reporting was a tough racket, and you had to be both lucky and good. Wren had always been both. He had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, for sensing when there was a story worth following up. His instincts were uncanny, and behind those kindly eyes and rumpled look was a razor–sharp mind that could peel away layers of deception and dig down to that tiny nugget of truth buried under a mound of Bullshit. Mare than one overconfident jackass had been undone by underestimating Andrew Wren.

Simon Lawrence was not likely to turn inter one of these unfortunates, however. Wren knew hire well enough to appreciate the tact that the Wiz hadn't gotten where he was by underestimating anyone.

Simon hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. `Sorry about that, Andrew, but you don't keep the mayor waiting:

Wren nodded benignly, shrugging. `I understand. Wednesday's event means a lot to you:

'Yes, but mare to the point, it means a lot to the mayor. He went out on a limb for us, persuading the council to pass a resolution dedicating the building, then selling the idea to the voters. I want to be certain that he comes out of this experience feeling good about things:

Wren walked over to the easy chair that fronted Simon's desk and sat down. Even though they had met only ante before, and that was two years ago, Simon Lawrence felt comfortable enough with Wren to call him by his first name. Wren wouldn't do anything to discourage that just yet.

°I should think just about everyone is feeling pretty good about this one, Simon: he complimented. `It's quite an accomplishment:

Simon leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands, giving Wren a thoughtful look. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with nicely chiselled features, thick dark hair, and startling blue eyes. When he walked, he looked like a big cat, sort of gliding from place to place, slow and graceful, never hurried, with an air of confidence about him that suggested he would not be easily be surprised. Wren placed him at a little over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds. His birth certificate, which Wren had ferreted out by searching the records in a suburb of St. Louis two years earlier in an unsuccessful attempt to learn something about his childhood, put him at forty–five years of age. He was unmarried, had no children, had no living relatives that anyone could identify, lived alone, and was the most important voice of his generation in the fight against homelessness.

His was a remarkable story. He had come to Seattle eight years ago after spending several years working for nationally based programs like Habitat for Humanity and Child Risk. He worked far the Union Gospel Mission and Treehouse, then after three years, founded Fresh Start. He began with an all–volunteer staff and an old warehouse on Jackson Street. Within a year, he had secured sufficient funding to lease the building where Fresh Start was presently housed, to hire a full–time staff of three, including Ray Hapgood, and to begin generating seed money far his next project. Pass/Go. He wrote a book on homeless women and children, entitled Street Lives. A documentary filmmaker became interested in his work and shot a feature that wan an Academy. Award. Shortly afterward, Simon was nominated for the prestigious Jefferson Award, which honours ordinary citizens who do extraordinary things in the field of community. — service. He was one of five state–wide winners, was selected as an entry for national competition, and was subsequently- a winner of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Award.

From there, things really rook off, The media began to cover him regularly. He was photogenic, charming, and passionate about his work, and he gave terrific interviews. His programs became nationally known. Hollywood adapted him as a cause, and he was smart enough to know how to make the most of that. Money poured in. He purchased the (buildings that housed Fresh Start and Pass/Go, increased his full–tune staff, began a volunteer training program, and developed a comprehensive informational program on the roots of homelessness, which he made available to organisations working with the homeless in other cities. He held several high–profile fund–raisers that brought in national celebrities to mingle with the locals, and with the ensuing contributions established a foundation to provide seed money for programs similar to his own.

He also wrote a second book, this one mare controversial than the first, but more critically acclaimed. The title was 1"7X Spiritual Child. It was something, of a surprise to everyone, because it

;~ KNIGHT OF THE WORD

77

did not deal with the homeless, but with the spiritual growth of children. It argued rather forcibly that children were possessed of an innate intelligence that allowed them to comprehend the lessons of spirituality, and that adults would do better if they were to spend less time trying to impose their personal religious and secular views and more time encouraging children to explore their own. It was a controversial position but Simon Lawrence was adept at advancing an argument without seeming argumentative, and he pretty much carried the day.

By now he was being referred to regularly as the Wizard of Oz. a name that had been coined early on by People magazine when is ran a fluff piece on the miracles he had performed in getting Fresh Start up and running. Wren knew Simon Lawrence wasn't overly fond of the tag, but he also knew the Wiz understood the value of advertising, and a catchy name didn't hurt when it came to raising dollars. He lived in the Emerald City, after all, so he couldn't very well complain if the media decided to label him the Wizard of Oz. Or the Wiz, more usually, for these days everyone seemed to think they were on a first–name basis with him. Simon Lawrence was hot stuff, which made him news, which made Andrew siren's purpose in taming to see him all the more intriguing.

An accomplishment; Simon said softly, repeating Wren's words. He shook his head. Andrew, I'm like the Dutch boy with his finger in the hole in the dike and the sea rising on the other side. Let me give you same statistics to think about. Use them or not when you write your next story, I don't care. But remember them.

'There are two hundred beds in this facility. With the new building, we should be able to double that. That will give us four hundred. Four hundred to service harmless women and children. There are twelve hundred school–age homeless children, Andrew. That's children, not women. Twenty–four percent of all our homeless are under the age of eighteen. And that number is growing every day.

`Ours is a specific focus. We provide help to homeless women and children. Eighty percent of those women and children are homeless because of domestic violence. The problem of domestic violence is growing worldwide, but especially here, in the United States. The statistics regarding children who die violently are all out of proportion with the rest of the world. An American child is five times mare likely to be killed before the age of eighteen than a child living in another industrialized nation. The rate of gun deaths and suicides among our children is more than twice that o$ other countries. We like to think of ourselves as progressive and enlightened, but you have to wonder. Homelessness is an alternative to dying, but not an especially attractive one. So it is difficult far me to dwell on accomplishments when the problem remains so acute.'

Wren nodded. 'I've seen the statistics'

'Good. Then let me give you an overview of our response as a nation to the problem of being homeless: Simon Lawrence leaned back again in his chair. `In a time in which the homeless problem is growing by leaps and bounds worldwide- due, to varying extents, to increases in the population, job elimination, technological advances, disintegration of the family structure, violence, and the rising cult of housing--our response state by star? and city by city has been an a11-out effort to look the other way. Or, as an alternative, to try to relocate the problem to some other part of the country. "We are engaged in a nationwide effort to crack down on the homeless b}^ passing new ordinances designed to move these people to where we cant see them. Stop them from panhandling, chat let them sleep in our parks and public places, conduct police sweeps to round them up, and get them the hell out of town that's our solution. Is them a concerted effort to get at the root problems of homelessness, to find ways to rehabilitate and reform, to address the differences between types of homelessness so that those who need one kind of treatment versus another can get it? How many tax dollars are being spent to build shelters and provide showers and hot meals? What efforts are being made to explore the ways in which domestic violence contributes to the problem, especially where women and children are concerned?

He folded his arms across his chest. `We have thousands and thousands of people living homeless on the streets of our cities at the same time that we have men and women earning millions of dollars a year running companies that make products whose continued usage will ruin our health, our environment, and our values. The irony is incredible. It's obscene.'

Wren nodded. `But you can't change that, Simon, The problem is too indigenous to who we are, too much a part of how we live our lives'

`Tell me about it. I feel like Dan Quixote, tilting at windmills'

Simon shrugged. `It's obviously hopeless, isn't it? But you know something, Andrew? I refuse to give up. I really do. It doesn't matter to me if I fail. It matters to me if I don't try: He thought about it a moment. `Too bad I'm not really the Wizard of Oz. If I were, I could just step behind the old curtain and pull a lever and change everything–just like that.'

Wren chuckled. `No, you couldn't. The Wizard of Oz was a humbug, remember?'

Simon Lawrence laughed with him. `Unfortunately, I do. I think about it every time someone refers to me as the Wiz. Do me a favour, Andrew. Please refrain from using that hideous appellation in whatever article you end up writing, Call me Toto or something; maybe it will catch an.'

There was a soft knock, the door opened, and Stefanie Winslow walked in carrying the lattes Simon had sent her to purchase from the coffee shop at Elliott Bay Book Company. Both men stared to rise, bur she motioned them back into their seats. 'Stay where you are, gentlemen, you probably need all your energy for the Interview. I'll just set these an the desk and be on my way.'

She gave Wren a dazzling smile, and he wished instantly that he was younger and cooler and even then he would probably need to be a cross between Harrison Ford and Bill Gates to have a chance with this woman. Stefanie Winslow was beautiful, but she was exotic as well, a combination that made her unforgettahle. She was tall and slim with jet–black hair that curled down to her shoulders, cut `back from her face and ears in a sweep so that it shimmered like satin in sunlight, Her skin was a strange smoky colour, suggesting that she was of mixed ancestry, the product of more than one culture, more than one people. Startling emerald eyes dominated an oval face with tiny, perfect features. She moved in a graceful, willowy way that accentuated her long limbs and neck and stunning shape. She seemed oblivious to how she looked and comfortable within herself, radiating a relaxed confidence that had both an infectious and unsettling effect on the people around her. Andrew Wren would have made the journey to Seattle just to see her in the flesh for ten seconds.

She set the lattes before them and started for the door. 'Simon, I'm going to finish with the SAM arrangements, then I'm out of here. John has your speech all done except for a once–over, so we're going out for a long, quiet, intimate dinner. See you tomorrow:

'Bye, Stef Simon waved her out.

'Nice seeing you, Mr. Wren,' she called back.

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Wren shook his head. 'Shouldn't she be a model or an actress or something? What sort of hold do you have over her, Simon"

Simon Lawrence shrugged. 'Will you be staying for the dedication on Wednesday, Andrew, or do you have to get right back?'

Wren reached for his latte and took a long sip. 'No, I'm staying until Thursday. The dedication is part of what I came for. It's central to the article I'm writing.'

Simon nodded. 'Excellent. Now what's the other part, if you don't mind my asking? Everything we've talked about has been covered in the newspapers already–ad nauseam, I might add. The New York Times didn't send its top investigative reporter to interview me for a rerun, did it? What's up, Andrew?'

Wren shrugged, trying to appear casual in making the gesture. 'Well, part of it is the dedication. I'm doing a piece on corporate and governmental involvement–or the lack thereof in the social problems of urban America. God knows, there's little enough to write about that's positive, and your programs are bright lights in a moldy shadowy panorama of neglect and disinterest. You've actually done something where others have just talked about it–and what you've done works:

'But?'

'But in the last month or so the paper has received a series of anonymous phone calls and letters suggesting that there are financial improprieties in your programs that need to be investigated. So my editor ordered me to follow it up, and here I am'

Simon Lawrence nodded, his face expressionless. 'Financial improprieties. I see'

He studied Wren. 'You must have done some work on this already. Have you found anything?'

Wren shook his head. 'Not a thing'

'You won't, either. The charge is ridiculous' Simon sipped at his latte and sighed. 'But what else would I say, right? So to set your mind at ease, Andrew, and to demonstrate that I have nothing to hide, I'll let you have a look at our books. I don't often do this, you understand, but in this case I'll make an exception. You already know, I expect, that we have accountants and lawyers and a board of directors to make certain that everything we do is above reproach. We're a high–profile operation with important donors. We don't take chances with our image'

'I know that' Wren demurred, looking vaguely embarrassed to deflect the implied criticism. 'But I appreciate your letting me see for myself.

'The books will show you what comes in and what goes out, everything but the names of the donors. You aren't asking for those, are you, Andrew?'

'No, no: Wren shook his head quickly. 'It's what happens to the money after it comes in that concerns me. I just want to be certain that when I write my article extolling the virtues of Fresh Start and Pass/Go and Toto the Wonder Wizard, I won't be shown up as an idiot later on' He tacked on a sheepish smile.

Simon Lawrence gave him a cool look. 'An idiot? Not you, Andrew. Not likely. Besides, if there's something crooked going on, I want to know about it, too'

He stood up. 'Finish your latte. I'll have Jenny Parent, our bookkeeper, bring up the records. You can sit here and look them over to your heart's content' He glanced down at his watch. `I've got a meeting with some people downtown at five, but you can stay as long as you like. I'll catch up with you in the morning, and you can give me your report then. Fair enough?'

Wren nodded. `More than fair. Thank YOU, Simon.'

Simon Lawrence paused midway around his desk. `Let me be honest with you about my feelings on this matter, Andrew. You are in a position to do a great deal of harm here, to undo an awful lot of hard work, and I don't want that to happen. I resent the hell out of the implication that I would do anything to subvert the efforts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go and the people who have given so much time and effort and money in support of those programs, but I understand that you can't ignore the possibility that the rumours and innuendoes have some basis in fact. You wouldn't be doing your job if you did. So I am trusting you to be up front with me on anything you finder, more to the point, don't find. Whatever you need, I'll try to give it to you. But I'm giving it to you in the belief that you won't write an article where rumours and accusations are repeated without any basis in fact:

Wren studied Lawrence for a moment. `I don't ever limit the scope of an investigation by offering conditions; he said quietly. `But I can also say that I have never based a report on anything that wasn't backed up by solid facts. It won't be any different here:

The other man held his gaze a moment longer. `See you tomorrow, Andrew:

He walked out the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Wren alone in his office. Wren sat where he was and finished his lane, then stood up and walked over to the window again. He admired the Wiz, admired the work he had done with the homeless. He hoped he wouldn't find anything bad to write about. He hoped the phone calls and letters were baseless–sour grapes from a former employee or an errant shot at troublemaking from an extremist group of `real Americans: He'd read the letters and listened to the tapes of the phone calls. It was possible there was nothing to them.

But his instincts told him otherwise. And he had learned from twenty–five nears of experience that his instincts were seldom wrong.

The demon gave Andrew Wren the better part of an hour with the foundation's financial records, waiting patiently, allowing the reporter enough time to familiarise himself with the overall record of donations to Fresh Start and Pass/Go, then checked to make certain the hallway was empty and slipped into the room behind him. Wren never heard the demon approach, his back to the door, his head lowered to the open books as he ran his finger across the notations. The demon stood looking at him for a moment, thinking how easy it would be to kill him, feeling the familiar hunger begin to build.

But now was not the time and Wren had not been lured to Seattle to satisfy the demon's hunger. There were plenty of others for that.

The demon moved up behind Andrew Wren and placed its fingers on the back of the man's exposed neck. Wren did not move, did not turn, did not feel anything as the dark magic entered him. His eyes locked on the pages before him, and his mind froze. The demon probed his thoughts, drew his attention, and then whispered the words that were needed to manipulate him.

I won't find what I'm looking for here. Simon Lawrence is much too clever for that. He wouldn't he stupid enough to let me look at these books if he thought they were incriminating. I have to be patient. I have to wait for my source to contact me.

The demon spoke in Andrew Wren's voice, in Andrew Wren's mind, in Andrew Wren's thoughts, ,and it would seem to the reporter as if the words were his own - He would do as the demon wanted without ever realising it; he would be the demon's tool. He would think that the ideas the demon gave him were his own and that the conclusions the demon reached far him were his. It was easy enough to arrange. Andrew Wren was an investigative reporter, and investigative reporters believed that everyone was covering up something. Why should Simon Lawrence be different?

Andrew Wren hesitated a moment as the demons words took root, and then he closed the book before him and began to stack it with the others.

The demon smiled in satisfaction. It wouldn't be long now until everything was in place. Another two days was all it would take. John Ross would be turned. A Knight of the Word would become a servant of the Void. It would happen so swiftly that it would be over before Ross even realized what was taking place. Even afterward, he would not know what had been done to him. But the demon would know, and that would be enough. A single step was all that was required to change John Ross's life, a step away from the light and into the dark. Andrew Wren would help make that happen.

The demon lifted its fingers from Andrew Wren's neck, slipped back out the door, and was gone.