Word & Void 02 - A Knight of the Word (23 page)

“I thought you were sick.”

“I’ll get better.”

She smirked. “I’ll bet. Well, you’re out of luck. I have work to do. I’ll see you later.” She frowned. “Or maybe not. I just remembered, I’m supposed to go with Simon to the KIRO interview, then maybe to some press things after that. He hasn’t given me the final word yet. Sorry, sweetie, but duty calls. Ring me if you hear from Nest, okay? I’ll try to break free to join you.”

She smiled and went out the door, blowing him a kiss. He stared after her without moving, then pushed the pens and paper away and got to his feet. Might as well follow through on his plan and get out of there, he decided. He was already back to thinking about something else Nest had said—that a demon in Pioneer Square was killing homeless people in the underground city. No one would miss them; no one would know. Except the feeders, of course. And he didn’t see the feeders much anymore, so he couldn’t tell if their current behavior reflected the demon’s presence or not.

He stared down at his desk, unseeing. Sometimes he was tempted to try out his magic, just for a minute, just to see if he still had the use of it. If he did that, he might see the feeders clearly and maybe be able to determine if there was a demon in their midst.

But he refused to do that. He had sworn an oath that he wouldn’t, because using magic was integral to acting as a Knight of the Word, and he had given all that up.

He walked out of his office, down the hall, past Della and a cluster of new arrivals huddled about her desk, and through the front door. The midday sunshine was fading, masked by heavy clouds blown in from the west on a sharp wind. The air had turned cold and brittle, and the light was autumn gray and pale. He glanced skyward. A storm was moving in. There would be rain by tonight.

His thoughts drifted.

A demon in Pioneer Square
.

Someone sent to kill him
.

Someone sent to subvert him
.

The Word and the Void at play
.

He crossed the street and moved past Waterfall Park toward the doorway to his apartment building. The waterfall tumbled down over the massive rocks and filled the walled enclosure with white noise. The park was empty, the afternoon shadows falling long and dark over the tables and chairs, benches and planters, and fountains. He didn’t like how the emptiness made him feel. He didn’t care for the thoughts it provoked. It seemed to reflect something inside.

In the shadows pooled among the boulders of the waterfall, something moved. The movement was quick and furtive, but unmistakable. Feeders. He paused to look more closely, to spy them out, but he could not do so. Those days were gone. He was someone different now. Something rough-edged brushed up against his memory—a reluctance, a wistfulness, a regret. The past had a way of creeping into the present, and his attempts at separating the two were still difficult. Even now. Even here.

Why had Nest Freemark been sent to him?

For just a moment he experienced an almost overpowering urge to flee. Just pack his bags, pick up Stefanie, and catch the first bus out of town. He stood facing into the park, and the movement in the shadows seemed to be reaching for him. He felt trapped in his life and by his decisions, and he could feel his control over things slipping away.

Then the moment passed. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and he was all right again. He studied the shadows and saw nothing. The park was still and empty. He felt foolish and slightly embarrassed. He supposed he was not yet entirely free of the emotional fallout of San Sobel. He guessed that’s what it was.

That was what he told himself as he turned away from the park and went down the sidewalk. That was how he dismissed the matter.

But deep inside, where hunches and instinct kept separate counsel, he wasn’t really sure.

A
fter Two Bears disappeared, Nest Freemark sat back down on the bench they had shared and stared out at the bay. Her thoughts kept returning to five years ago when she had first met him. She kept trying to reconcile what she remembered from then with what she knew from now. She kept trying to make the parts fit.

I fought in Vietnam. I walked and slept with death; I knew her as I would a lover. I was young before, but afterward I was very old. I died in the Nam so many times, I lost count. But I killed a lot of men, too
.

He had told her that right after he had told her his name. He had told her he was a killer. But nothing else he had told her had made him seem so. There had been no hint of violence about him He had gone out of his way to dispel her concerns.

I am a stranger, a big man, a combat veteran who speaks of terrifying things. You should be afraid. But we are friends, Nest. Our friendship was sealed with our handshake. I will not hurt you
.

But he might hurt John Ross. He might have to, because that was what he had been sent to do. She pondered the idea, thinking that in some strange way they had all changed places from five years ago. John Ross was on trial instead of her, and Two Bears might become his executioner. Ross now stood in her shoes, and Two Bears stood in his.

But where did she stand?

She was aware after a while that there were eyes watching her, and she glanced around cautiously. The shabby, sad-eyed Native Americans whom Two Bears had dismissed from their bench were staring at her from a short distance away. They huddled together on the grass, sitting cross-legged, their coats pulled over their shoulders, their heads hunched close, their dark eyes haunted. She wondered what they were thinking. Maybe they were wondering about her. Maybe about Two Bears. Maybe they just wanted their bench back.

I’m afraid
, she had said five years ago to Two Bears. And he had replied,
Fear is a fire to temper courage and resolve. Use it so
.

She was afraid again, and she wondered if she could use her fear now as he had taught her to use it then.

Speak my name once more
, he had asked her, and she had done so.
O’olish Amaneh. Yes
, he had said.
Say it often when I am gone, so that I will not be forgotten
.

Speak my name
, he asked her again, just moments ago. As if by saying it, she could keep him alive.

The last of his kind, the last of the Sinnissippi, appearing and disappearing like a ghost. But his connection to her, while she didn’t pretend to understand it completely, was as settled as concrete. They were linked in a way that transcended time and distance, and she felt her kinship to him so strongly it seemed as if they had been joined always. She wondered at its meaning. She knew now he was a servant of the Word, just like John Ross. So he shared with her a knowledge of the war with the Void, and they were possessed of magic, and they knew of demons and feeders, and they walked a line between two worlds that others didn’t even know existed.

But there was more. In some strange way, she knew, they needed each other. It was hard to explain, but it was there. She took strength from him, but he took something from her, as well. Something. Her brow furrowed. Something.

She rose and walked to the railing, abandoning the bench. She stared out over the bay to the mountains, their jagged peaks cutting across the horizon. What was it he took from her? A hope? A comfort? A companionship? Something. It was there, a shape, a form at the back of her mind, but she could not quite put a name to it.

The afternoon was lengthening. Already the sun was sliding rapidly toward the horizon, its light tinting the clouds that masked it in myriad colors of purple and rose. It would be dark soon. She glanced at her watch. Four-fifteen. She wondered what she should do. She had already decided to meet John Ross for dinner, to tell him of her conversation with O’olish Amaneh, to try again to persuade him of the danger he was in. But it was too early yet to go back to the hotel and call him.

She walked out of the park and through the market, ambling along through the stalls of fruits and vegetables, fish and meats, and flowers and crafts, pausing now and again to look, to listen to the itinerant musicians, and to talk with the vendors. Everyone was friendly, willing to spend a few minutes with a visitor to the city. She bought a jar of honey and a fish pin, and she tasted a cup of apple cider and a slice of fresh melon. She reached the brass pig that marked the far end of the market, turned around, and walked back again.

When she had made the circuit, she went back into the park and looked around. The park was almost empty, dappled with shadows and splashed with light from the street lamps. Even the Indians had moved on, all but one who was asleep on the grass, wrapped head to foot in an old green blanket, long black hair spilling out of the top like silk from an ear of corn.

Nest looked around. She kept thinking that Ariel would reappear, but so far there was no sign of her. She checked her watch again. It was five o’clock. Maybe she should call Ross. She had the phone number of Fresh Start written on a slip of paper in her pocket. She could probably reach him there. She looked around for a phone and didn’t see one. But there were several restaurants close at hand, and there would be phones inside.

Then she heard her name called in an excited whisper. “Nest! Come quickly!”

Ariel was right next to her, hovering in the fading light, a pale shimmer of movement.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

The tatterdemalion’s face brushed against her own, and she could feel the other’s urgency. “Out looking. There are sylvans everywhere, and sometimes they can tell you things. I went to find the ones who live here. There are three in the city, and all of them make their homes in its parks. One is east in the Arboretum, one is north in Discovery, and one is west in Lincoln.”

She paused, and then the words exploded out of her in a rush. “The one in Lincoln,” she hissed, “has seen the demon!”

“Some kids set fire to a homeless man under the viaduct last night,” Simon Lawrence announced, looking into his tonic and lime as if it were a crystal ball. “They doused him with gasoline and lit him up. Then they sat around and watched him burn. That’s how the police caught them; they were so busy watching, they forgot to run.” He shook his head. “Just when you think some measure of sanity has been restored to the world, people find a way to prove you wrong.”

Andrew Wren sipped at his scotch and water and nodded. “I thought that sort of thing only happened in New York. I thought Seattle was still relatively civilized. Goes to show.”

They were sitting across from each other in easy chairs on the upper level of the lobby bar in the Westin. It was five o’clock, and the hotel was bustling with activity. Participants from a handful of conferences the hotel was hosting were streaming in, identified by plastic badges that announced their company name in abbreviated block letters, one tag indistinguishable from another. With the day’s meetings and seminars concluded, drinks and dinner and evening entertainment were next on the agenda, and the attendees were ready to rock and roll. But the corner of the bar in which Simon Lawrence and Andrew Wren sat was an island of calm.

Wren watched the Wiz check his watch. He seemed distracted. He had seemed so since his arrival, as if other things commanded his attention and he was just putting in his time here until he could get to them. They had agreed to meet for drinks after Simon had been detained earlier in the day at a meeting with the mayor and been unable to keep their noon appointment. When he was done here, the Wiz had a TV interview scheduled. Maybe that was what he was thinking about. No rest for the wicked, Wren thought sourly, then immediately regretted it. He was being perverse because he hadn’t found anything bad to write about Simon Lawrence. No skeletons had emerged from the closet. No secrets had revealed themselves. The anonymous tips had not panned out. His instincts had failed him. He sipped at his drink some more.

“I appreciate your meeting me, Andrew,” Simon said, smiling now. He was dressed in a dark shirt, slacks, and sport coat, and he looked casually elegant and very much at ease amid the convention suits. Wren, in his familiar rumpled journalist’s garb, looked like something the cat had dragged in. “I know I haven’t been able to give you as much time as you would like, but I want to make sure you feel you’ve been given full access to our records.”

Wren nodded. “I’ve got no complaints. Everyone has been very cooperative. And you were right. I didn’t find so much as a decimal point out of place.”

The smile widened. “You sound a tad disappointed. Does this mean you will be forced to write something good about us?”

Wren pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Looks that way. Damned disappointing to have it end like this. When you’re an investigative reporter, you like to find something to investigate. But you can’t win them all.”

Simon Lawrence chuckled. “I’ve found that to be true.”

“Not lately, I’ll wager.” Wren cocked an eyebrow expectantly. “Lately, you’ve been winning them all. And you’re about to win another.”

The Wiz looked unexpectedly skeptical. “The shelter? Oh, that’s a victory all right. It counts for something. But I wonder sometimes what it is that I’m winning. Like that general, I keep thinking I’m winning battles, but losing the war.”

Wren shrugged. “Wars are won one battle at a time.”

Simon Lawrence hunched forward, his dark eyes intense. The distracted look was gone. “Sometimes. But some wars can’t be won. Ever. What if mine against homelessness is one?”

“You don’t believe that.”

The Wiz nodded. “You’re right, I don’t. But some do, and they have cogent arguments to support their position. A political scientist named Banfield posited back in the early seventies that the poor are split into two groups. One is disadvantaged simply because it lacks money. Give them a jump start and their middle-class values and work ethic will pull them through. But the second group will fail no matter how much money you give them because they possess a radically present-oriented outlook on life that attaches no value to work, sacrifice, self-improvement, or service. If that’s so, if Banfield was right, then the war effort is doomed. The problem of homelessness will never be solved.”