Word & Void 02 - A Knight of the Word (31 page)

“A demon would do anything that suited its purpose.”

“It isn’t possible,” he said again.

“This demon is a changeling. A very adept changeling.”

Ross shook his head. “I would know. I could be fooled, but not that completely.”

She wasn’t going to change his mind. Besides, she wanted to believe him. “So the demon found out where I was going and what I was doing some other way. What way would that be?”

Ross rubbed his lean jaw with one hand and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. None of this makes much sense. There’s something not right about all of it. If the Void wanted to turn me, why wouldn’t it take a more direct approach? Just suppose for a moment the dream comes to pass, and I do kill Simon Lawrence. That would be a terrible thing, but it wouldn’t persuade me to begin serving the Void. It would probably do just the opposite.”

Nest looked at him doubtfully. “But the Lady said it begins with a single misstep. You don’t change all at once. You change gradually.”

They stared at each other some more, neither speaking. Nest thought suddenly of Two Bears, and the reason he was in Seattle. Perhaps she should tell Ross. But what would that accomplish? How would it help him at this point?

His green eyes were intense. “Remember when I said earlier I wanted to come after you, but something happened and I couldn’t? There was something wrong with me yesterday after I left you. I went back to the apartment and practically passed out. Stef stopped off just long enough to give me your message. Then I seem to recall Simon being there, too. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up at midnight. It’s been bothering me. I don’t even remember going to bed. I just remember sitting in the living room, thinking it was odd that Simon was there, then waking up in bed when Stef shook me.”

He hesitated. “I was pretty well out of it. Maybe there was someone else there, too. Maybe I said something about your message, and I can’t remember.”

He was looking for help from her, but she had none to give. He waited a moment, then leaned forward. “When are you scheduled to fly back to Chicago?”

“Today, at four-thirty.”

He nodded. “Good. Get on that plane and get out of here. We have to do something to disrupt the flow of things, something to sidetrack this dream. Getting you out of here is the first step. I’ll nose around a little and see what I can learn. Maybe I can uncover something. If I can’t, I’ll leave, too. I’ve got a few days coming. I’ll just take them. If neither of us is here, the events in the dream won’t happen.”

She studied him. “You’ll leave before dark, before tonight’s celebration?”

His lips compressed tightly. “I won’t go anywhere near the Seattle Art Museum. I’ll stay far away.”

She was thinking about the promise she had made to herself to see things through to the end. But if she insisted on staying, he would stay, too. She couldn’t allow that. And if they both left, then the matter was ended—for the moment, at least. If Ross accepted he was in danger, that there was a demon out there working to subvert him, he would be on his guard. That ought to be enough. She had delivered the Lady’s message, and that was all she was expected to do.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go.”

“Now?”

“As soon as I can pack my bag and check out. I’ll catch a taxi to the airport. You won’t have to worry about me anymore.”

He exhaled slowly. “Fair enough.”

“Just promise me you won’t forget to keep worrying about yourself. This isn’t going to end until you find out who the demon is.”

“I know,” he said.

And it wouldn’t end then either, and they both knew it. It wouldn’t end, because even if he unmasked this demon, there would be another, and another, until one of them succeeded in destroying him. It wouldn’t end until he either found a way to give back the staff or agreed to resume his life as a Knight of the Word. It was not a choice that would be easily resolved, and neither one of them wanted to examine it too closely.

“Will you call me in Hopewell and at least leave a message?” she asked him in the ensuing silence.

“Yes.”

She sighed. “I hate leaving this business unfinished.” She saw the sudden look of concern in his eyes. “But I’ll keep my bargain, John. Don’t worry.”

“That’s just the trouble. I do.”

She stood up. “I’d better go. Good-bye, John. Be careful.”

He rose, as well, and she walked around to embrace him, kissing his cheek. The gesture was stiff and awkward and uncertain.

“Good-bye, Nest,” he said.

She stepped back. “I’ll tell you something,” she said. “I don’t know that saying good-bye feels any better this time than it did the last. I’m still not sure about you.”

His smile was bitter and sad, and he suddenly looked older than his years. “I know, Nest. I’m sorry about that. Thanks for coming. It means a lot that you did.”

She turned and walked out of the bar, crossed the lobby to the elevators, and did not look back.

A
ndrew Wren woke early that same morning despite the fact he had been up very late tracing the transfers of funds from the corporate accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go to the private accounts of Simon Lawrence and John Ross. It was well after midnight by the time he completed his work and satisfied himself he knew exactly how all the withdrawals and deposits had been made and the routes through which various funds had traveled. He was exhausted by then, but a little bit of sleep did wonders for him when he was hot on the trail, and he felt energized and ready to go once more shortly after first light.

Nevertheless, he took his time. He had calls to make and faxes to send. He wanted to check on balances and signatures. He wanted to make very sure of what he had before he started writing anything. So he showered and shaved at a leisurely pace, thinking things through yet again, formulating his plans for the day.

It wasn’t until he went downstairs for breakfast and was engaged in perusing Wednesday’s
New York Times
that he overheard a conversation at an adjoining table and learned Fresh Start had burned down during the night.

At first he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, and he paused in his reading to listen more closely as the conversation revealed the details. The building was a total loss. There was only one fatality, an employee. Arson wasn’t thought to be the cause. Simon Lawrence would be holding a press conference on the future of the program at two o’clock that afternoon.

Andrew Wren finished his breakfast and bought a copy of the
Post-Intelligencer
, Seattle’s morning paper. There were pictures and a short piece on the fire on the front page, but it had happened too late for an in-depth story.

Wren walked back to his room with the papers and sat down at his work desk with his yellow pad and notes and the packet of documentation on the illegal funds transfers spread out before him. He tried to decide if the fire had anything to do with what he was investigating, but it was too early to make that call. If it wasn’t arson, then it wasn’t relevant. If it was arson, then it might be. He stared out the window, deciding what to do next. It was only nine-fifteen.

He made up his mind quickly, the way he always did when he was closing in on something. He sent his faxes to the home office and to various specialists he worked with from time to time, requesting the information he needed, then began calling all the banks at which personal accounts had been opened in the names of Simon Lawrence and John Ross for the deposit of Fresh Start and Pass/Go funds. He used a time-tested technique, claiming to be in accounting at one or the other of the nonprofit corporations, giving the account number and the balance he had before him, and asking to verify the amounts. From there he went on to gather other information, building on the initial rapport he had established with whoever was on the other end of the line to complete his investigation. It was practically second nature to him by now. He knew all the buttons to push and all the tricks and ploys.

He was done by a little after ten-thirty. He called the number at Pass/Go and asked for Stefanie Winslow. When she came on the line, he told her he was coming over to see the Wiz. She advised him that Simon wouldn’t be available until late in the day, if then. He assured her he understood, he had heard about the fire and knew what Simon must have been going through, but he needed only a few minutes and it was imperative they meet immediately. He added it involved the matter they had discussed yesterday, and he was sure Simon would want to see him.

She put him on hold. When she came back on, she said he could come right over.

Andrew Wren put down the phone, pulled on his rumpled jacket with the patches on the elbows, picked up his briefcase, and went out the door, humming softly.

Ten minutes later, he was climbing out of a taxi in front of Pass/Go. The educational center was situated right next door to Fresh Start, but separated by a narrow alleyway. Before last night, the two buildings had looked substantially the same—1940s brick buildings of six stories facing on Second Avenue with long glass windows, recessed entries with double wooden doors, and no signs. But Pass/Go had survived the fire where Fresh Start had not. Fresh Start was a burned-out, blackened shell surrounded by barricades and yellow tape, its roof and floors sagging or collapsed, its windows blown out by the heat, and its fixtures and furnishings in ruins.

As he stood staring at the still-smoking wreck, Stefanie Winslow came out the front door of Pass/Go.

“Good morning, Mr. Wren,” she said cheerfully, her smile dazzling, her hand extended.

As he offered his own hand in response, he was shocked to see the marks on her arms and face. “Good heavens, Ms. Winslow! What happened to you?”

She gave a small shrug. “I was involved in getting people out last night, and I picked up a few bumps and bruises along the way. It’s nothing that won’t heal. How are you?”

“Fine.” He was somewhat nonplussed by her attitude. “You seem very cheerful given the circumstances, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s my job, Mr. Wren. I’m supposed to put a good face on things, my own notwithstanding. We lost the building, but all the clients got out. That doesn’t help much when I think about Ray, but it’s the best I can do.”

She filled him in on the details of Ray Hapgood’s death and the efforts of the fire department to save the building. Ross had been present when it took place, but he had been sleeping earlier and she’d had to wake him to help her, so it didn’t look like he was involved in any way. Wren listened without seeming overly interested, taking careful mental notes for later.

“The building was fully insured,” she finished, “so we’ll be able to rebuild. In the meantime, we’ve been given the use of a warehouse several blocks away that can be brought up to code pretty easily for our purposes and will serve as a temporary shelter during the rebuilding. We’ve been given a number of donations already to help tide us over and there should be more coming in. Things could be much worse.”

Wren smiled. “Well, I’m very glad to hear that, Ms. Winslow.”

“Stefanie, please.” She touched his arm. “Ms. Winslow sounds vaguely authoritarian.”

Wren nodded agreeably. “Do you suppose I could see Mr. Lawrence now for those few minutes you promised me? Before he becomes too tied up with other things? I know he has a news conference scheduled for two o’clock.”

“Now would be fine, Mr. Wren.” She took his arm as she might an old friend’s. “Come with me. We’ve got him hidden in the back.”

They went inside through a lobby decorated with brightly colored posters and children’s drawings, past a reception desk, and down a hall with doors opening into classrooms and offices. Through tall glass windows, Wren could see a grassy play area filled with toys and playground equipment shoehorned between the surrounding buildings.

“The nursery, kitchen facilities, dining rooms, Special Ed, and more classrooms are upstairs,” Stefanie informed him, waving to one of the teachers as she passed by an open door. “Life goes on.”

Simon Lawrence had set up shop in a tiny office at the very back of the building. He sat at an old wooden desk surrounded by cartons of supplies and forms, his angular frame hunched forward over a mound of papers, files, notepads, and pens and pencils. He was on the phone talking, but he motioned Wren through the open door and into a folding chair identical to the one he was occupying. Stefanie Winslow waved good-bye and went out the door, closing it softly behind her.

The Wiz finished his conversation and hung up. “I hope this isn’t bad news, Andrew,” he said, smiling wearily. “I’ve had just about all the bad news I can handle for the moment.”

“So I gather.” Wren glanced around at the boxes and bare walls. “Quite a comedown from your last digs.”

Simon snorted derisively. “Doesn’t mean a thing compared to the cost to Fresh Start. It will take a minimum of three to four weeks to get the warehouse converted and the program up and running again. How many women and children will we lose in that time, I wonder?”

“You’ll do the best you can. Sometimes that has to be enough.”

Simon leaned back. His handsome face looked worn and haggard, but his eyes were bright and sharp as they fixed on the reporter. “Okay, Andrew, what’s this all about? Lay it out on the table and get it over with.”

Andrew Wren nodded, reached into his briefcase, took out the copies he had made of the documents with which he had been provided, and placed them on the desk in front of the Wiz. Simon picked them up and began scanning them, quickly at first, then more slowly. His face lost some color, and his jaw tightened. Halfway through his perusal, he looked up.

“Are these for real?” he asked carefully. “Have you verified they exist?”

Wren nodded. “Every last one.”

The Wiz went back to his examination, finishing quickly. He shook his head. “I know what I’m seeing, but I can’t believe it.” His eyes fixed on Wren. “I don’t know anything about this. Not about the accounts or any of the transfers. I’d give you an explanation if I could, but I can’t. I’m stunned.”