Word & Void 02 - A Knight of the Word (33 page)

“This won’t take long,” Wren assured him. “We could sit at one of those tables in the little park right around the corner, if you wish.”

They walked back to the entrance to Waterfall Park and took seats at a table on the upper level where the sound of the falls wasn’t quite so deafening. Ross glanced across the street at the offices of Pass/Go, wondering if anyone had seen him. No, he amended wordlessly, not if anyone had seen him. If the demon had seen him.

He grimaced at his own paranoia. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wren?”

Andrew Wren fumbled with his briefcase. “I’m doing a piece on Simon Lawrence, Mr. Ross. Last night, someone dropped off some documents at my hotel room.” He extracted a sheaf of papers from the case and handed them across the table. “I’d like you to take a look.”

Ross took the packet, set it before him, and began to thumb through the pages. Bank accounts, he saw. Transfers of funds, withdrawals and deposits. He frowned. The withdrawals were from Fresh Start and Pass/Go. The deposits were into accounts under Simon Lawrence’s name. And under his.

He glanced up at Andrew Wren in surprise. Wren’s soft face was expressionless. Ross went back to the documents. He worked his way through, then looked up again. “Is this some sort of joke?”

Wren shook his head solemnly. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Ross. At least not the sort anyone is laughing at. Particularly Simon Lawrence.”

“You’ve shown these to Simon?”

“I have.”

“What did he say?”

“He says he’s never seen them.”

Ross pushed the packet back across the table at Wren. “Well, neither have I. I don’t know anything about these accounts other than the fact they’re not mine. What’s going on here?”

Andrew Wren shrugged. “It would appear you and Simon Lawrence have been siphoning funds from the charitable corporations you work for. Have you?”

John Ross was so angry he could barely contain himself. “No, Mr. Wren, I have not. Nor has Simon Lawrence, I’m willing to bet. Those signatures are forgeries, every last one of them. Mine looks pretty good, but I know I didn’t sign for any of those transfers. Someone is playing a game, Mr. Wren …”

The minute he said it, he knew. The answer was there in ten-foot-high neon lights behind his eyes, flashing.

“Do you have any idea who that someone might be, Mr. Ross?” Andrew Wren asked quietly, folding his hands over the documents, his eyes bright and inquisitive.

Ross stared at him, his mind racing. Of course, he did. It was the demon. The demon was responsible. But, why?

He shook his head. “Offhand, I’d say whoever provided you with the information, Mr. Wren.”

The other man nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve considered that.”

“Someone who doesn’t like Simon Lawrence.”

“Or you.”

Ross nodded. “Perhaps. But I’d say Simon is the more likely target.” He paused. “But you’ve thought this through already, haven’t you? That’s what an investigative reporter does. You’ve already considered all the possibilities. Maybe you’ve even made up your mind.”

Wren grimaced. “No, Mr. Ross, I haven’t done that. It’s too early for making up one’s mind about this mess. I have tried to consider the possibilities. One of those possibilities relies on your analysis that the Wiz is the primary target. But for that to be true, it must also be true that someone is setting him up. That requires a motive. You seem to have a rather good one. If you were looking for a way to protect yourself in the event your own theft was discovered, salting an account or two in Simon Lawrence’s name might just do the trick.”

Ross thought it through. “Oh, I get it. I steal a little for me, a little for him, then claim it was all his idea if I get caught. That gets me a reduced sentence, maybe even immunity.”

“It’s happened before.”

“You know something, Mr. Wren?” Ross looked off at the waterfall for a minute, then back again. His eyes were hard and filled with a rage he could no longer disguise. “I’m just about as mad as I’ve ever been in my life. I love my work with Fresh Start. I would never do anything to jeopardize that. Nor would I do anything to jeopardize a program I strongly believe in and support. I’ve never stolen a penny in my life. Frankly, I don’t care much about money. I’ve never had it, and I’ve never missed it. Nothing’s happened to change that.”

He rose, stiff-legged and seething. “So you go right ahead and do what you have to do. But let me tell you something. If you don’t find out who’s behind this, I will. That’s a promise, Mr. Wren. I will.”

“Mr. Ross?” Andrew Wren stood up with him. “Could you just give me another minute? Mr. Ross?”

But John Ross was already walking away.

Bait.

Nest Freemark considered the implications of the word as calmly as she could, which wasn’t easy to do. The thought that she had been dispatched to Seattle to find John Ross, not with any expectation she could influence him by virtue of well-reasoned argument, but solely for the purpose of influencing his dreams and forcing him to rethink his position at the same time she was being put at risk was almost more than she could bear.

She fumed for a moment, then wondered how the Lady could know how her presence would affect things. Could she know the dream would be changed in a way that would make Ross reconsider? If the Lady knew what the dream was, it wasn’t such a long shot she knew how to change it.

Nest put her face in her hands and closed her eyes. She was jousting with shadows. She was just guessing.

She left behind the dream and its implications and went back to what she knew. There was a demon. The demon was in Seattle. The demon was after Ross. The demon was someone he knew, probably well. The demon was determined to claim him—so determined it had been willing to attack and kill another demon who challenged it for possession of his soul.

So far, so good. Nest nodded into her hands. What else?

The demon had recognized Nest and decided she was a threat. But not enough of a threat to do anything about her until after she had gone to Lincoln Park to speak with Boot. Boot was going to tell her something when the demon attacked, something about the demon changing again, only not in the same way.

She backed off, knowing all she could do with that approach was to speculate, that the answers she needed had to be reached from another direction.

She glanced at her watch. Three-thirty. Her plane would begin boarding around four. She looked down at her bag, glanced over at the security check and the people lined up to go through the metal detector, and went back to thinking.

The demon had been present when she had gone to Fresh Start to find John Ross. Her magic, into whatever form it had evolved, had reacted to the demon and made Nest physically sick. The demon had tracked her or followed her or intercepted her message and found her later at Lincoln Park. Which? It had killed Boot, Audrey, and Ariel, and had tried to kill her. And then it had gone back to the city and set fire to Fresh Start. Why?

Her head hurt. Nothing fit. She walked down the concourse with her bag to an SBC stand and ordered a decaf cappuccino. Then she found a different seat and thought about the demon some more.

What was she missing?

Stay away from him, Ariel had warned her of John Ross. He has demon stink all over him. He is already lost.

Seemed right to her, given his refusal to accept the possibility he was in danger, that he might be fooling himself about his vulnerability. But John Ross genuinely seemed to believe that he was a different person, no longer a Knight of the Word, no longer a keeper of the magic. He was shattered by San Sobel, and now he was in love with Stefanie Winslow and committed to the work of Simon Lawrence, and his life was all new.

Like her own was new, she thought suddenly. She had left the past behind as well, back in the park of the Sinnissippi, back with the passing of Gran and Old Bob, back with the end of her childhood.

She thought suddenly of her mother. There was no reason for it, but all of a sudden she was thinking about how much she missed not having her there while she was growing up. Gran and Old Bob had done the best they could, which was pretty good, but the gap in her life that her mother’s death had left wasn’t something anyone could fill. She wondered if that was how John Ross had felt before Stef had come into his life. He had wandered alone for more than ten years in service to the Word, living with his terrible dreams of the future and the responsibility they forced on him in the present. It was so hard to be without someone who loved you. Everyone was affected by the absence of love. Even her father, who was a demon …

The words froze in midsentence, crystallized in her mind, and hung there like shards of ice. She had been trying to think of something earlier, something that spoke to the issue of the demon’s behavior with Ross, something from her past. Now she knew what it was. It was her father’s behavior toward Gran, years ago.

It was the same. It was exactly the same.

In a moment’s time, everything came together, all the loose ends, all the answers she had been unable to locate, all the missing clues. She felt her breath catch in her throat as she thought it through, trying it out, seeing if it fit.

She knew who the demon was.

She knew why John Ross could not escape it.

A wave of heat rushed through her. Maybe she had been wrong about the Lady after all. Maybe the Lady knew Nest would see what Ross could not.

But was there still time enough to save him?

She was on her feet, her bag flung over one shoulder, running for the exit and the taxi stand.

J
ohn 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 clues. 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 done at Fresh Start and Pass/Go, donors would pull back, 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 phony 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 a 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 favorite wing chair, he dialed 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 realized 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.”

She 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 same 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.”