by Terry Brooks
“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.”
Andrew Wren sat waiting, saying nothing.
The Wiz leaned back again in his folding chair and set the papers on the desk. “I haven’t taken a cent from either program that wasn’t approved in advance. Not one. The accounts with my name on them aren’t really mine. I don’t know who opened them or who made the transfers, but they aren’t mine. I can’t believe John Ross would do something like this, either. He’s never given me any reason to think he would.”
Wren nodded, keeping silent.
“If I were going to steal money from the corporations, I would either steal a lot more or do a better job of it. This kind of petty theft is ridiculous, Andrew. Have you checked the signatures to see if they match mine or John’s?”
Wren scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’m having it done professionally. I should know something later today.”
“Who brought all this to you?” The Wiz indicated the incriminating papers with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Wren gave a small shrug. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
Simon Lawrence shook his head in dismay. “Well, they say these things come in threes. Last night I lost a good friend and half of five years’ hard work. Today I find I’m about to lose my reputation. I wonder what comes next?”
He rose from the desk and paced to the door and back again, then turned to face Wren. “I’m betting that when you check the signatures, you won’t find a match.”
“Quite possibly not. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t involved, Simon. You could have had someone else act for you.”
“John Ross?”
“Ross, or even a third person.”
“Why would I do this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you were desperate. Desperate people do desperate things. I’ve given up trying to figure out the reasons behind why people do the things they do. I’ve got all I can handle just uncovering the truth of what’s been done.”
The Wiz sat down again, his eyes smoldering. “I’ve spent five years building this program, Andrew. I’ve given everything I have to make it work. If you report this, it will all go down the tubes.”
“I know that,” Wren acknowledged softly.
“Even if there’s nothing to connect me directly, even if an inquiry clears me of any wrongdoing, the program will never be the same. I’ll quit in order to remove any lingering doubts about the possibility of impropriety, or I’ll stay and fight and live with the suspicion that something is still going on, but either way Fresh Start and Pass/Go will always be remembered for this scandal and not for the good they’ve accomplished.”
Andrew Wren sighed. “I think maybe you’re overstating your case a bit, Simon.”
The Wiz shook his head. “No, I’m not. You know why? Because the whole effort is held together by the slenderest of threads. Helping the homeless isn’t a program that attracts support naturally. It isn’t a program people flock to just because they believe in aiding the homeless. What happens to the homeless is a low priority in most people’s lives. It isn’t a glamorous cause. It isn’t a compelling cause. It’s balanced right on the edge of people’s consciousness, and it could topple from view with just a nudge. It took me years to bring it to people’s attention and make it a cause they would choose to support over all the others. But it can lose that same support in the blink of an eye.”
He sighed. “I know you’re just doing your job, Andrew,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything less. But be thorough, please. Be sure about this before you act. An awful lot rides on what you decide to do.”
Andrew Wren folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. “I appreciate what’s at stake better than you think, Simon. That’s why I came to talk with you first. I wanted to hear what you had to say. As far as making any decisions, I have a lot more work to do first. I won’t be rushing into anything.”
He rose and held out his hand. “I’m sorry about this. As I told you earlier, I admire the work you’ve done here. I’d hate to think it would suffer for any reason.”
Simon Lawrence took his hand and shook it firmly. “Thank you for coming to me about this. I’ll do what I can to look into it from this end. Whatever I find, I’ll pass along.”
Andrew Wren opened the door and walked back down the hall to the reception area. There was no sign of Stefanie Winslow, who was probably out working on preparations for the press conference. He paused as he neared the front door, then turned back.
The young woman working the intake desk looked up as he approached, smiling. “Can I help you?”
“I was wondering,” he said, returning the smile, “if you know where I could find John Ross.”
Chapter 21
It was nearing two o’clock by the time Nest packed her bag, checked out of the Alexis, and caught a taxi to the airport. She rode south down I-5 past Boeing Field on one side and lines of stalled traffic heading north on the other. She stared out the window, watching the city recede into the distance, wrestling with the feeling that her connection with John Ross was fading with it.
She was riddled with doubt and plagued by a sense of uneasiness she could not explain.
She had done everything she had come to do and a little more. She had found John Ross, she had given him the Lady’s warning, she had persuaded him he was in danger, and she had extracted his solemn promise he would take whatever steps were necessary to protect himself. She kept telling herself there was really nothing else she could do—nothing else, in fact, that she could justify—but none of the monolog seemed to help.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Ariel and Audrey and Boot were still dead and some part of the guilt for that was still hers. Maybe it had something to do with her discomfort at having done so little to help them. She knew she was dissatisfied with the idea of leaving the demon who had killed them loose in the city of Seattle. But what was she supposed to do? Track it down and exact revenge? How would she do that and what difference would it make now? It wouldn’t bring back the forest creatures. It wouldn’t make things whole or right in any meaningful way. Maybe it would give her a measure of satisfaction, but she wasn’t even sure of that.
Mostly, she decided, she was bothered by the prospect of leaving behind so many loose ends. She was a runner, a competitor, and she was used to seeing things through to the finish, not giving up halfway. And that’s what her leaving felt like.
For a time she managed to put it aside and think about what waited at the other end of her flight. Northwestern University, with classes first thing in the morning, three days
of homework waiting to be made up, and her lapsed training regimen. Her grandparents’ home, now hers, and the papers sitting on the kitchen counter, which would permit its sale. Pick, with his incessant questions about her commitment to Sinnissippi Park. Robert, waiting patiently for a phone call or letter telling him everything was all right.
As she would wait for a phone call or a letter from John Ross telling her the same thing.
Or would she never hear another word?
The taxi took the airport exit, wound its way along a series of approaches, and pulled onto the ticketing ramp. She looked over at the big airplanes parked at the boarding gates and contemplated the idea of flying home. It didn’t seem real to her. It didn’t seem like something that was going to happen.
She got out at the United terminal, paid the driver, and walked inside. She checked in at the ticketing counter and received her boarding pass and gate assignment. She decided to keep her bag with her because it was not very big and she did not want the hassle of trying to retrieve it through baggage claim at O’Hare. She walked toward the shops and gate ramps, remembering suddenly, incongruously, she still hadn’t replaced her windbreaker. She had thrown on her sweatshirt, but that wasn’t going to provide her with enough warmth when she had to go outside in Chicago.
She glanced around, then walked into a Northwest Passage Outdoor Shop, a clothing store that sold mostly logo products. After rooting around in the parkas for a while, she found a lightweight down jacket she could live with, carried it up to the register, and paid for it with her charge card.
As she carried it out of the store, under her arm, she found herself wondering if the dead children’s memories that had helped make up Ariel would be used to make another tatterdemalion or if they would be blown about by the wind forever. What happened to tatterdemalions when their lives ended? Little more than scraps of magic and memories to begin with, did they ever come together again in a new life? Pick had never said.
She moved to a seating area facing a security check and sat down. She was back to thinking about John Ross. Something was very wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew it was there. She was trying to pretend everything was fine, but it wasn’t. On the surface maybe, but not down deep, beneath the comfortable illusion she was trying to embrace. She held up her anxiety for examination, and it glared back at her defiantly.
What was it she was missing?
What was it she needed to do in order to make the discomfort go away?
She began to examine the John Ross situation once again. She went through all of its aspects, stopping abruptly when she came to his dream. The Lady had warned Nest about the dream, that it would come to pass in a few short days, and that to the extent Ross was a part of the events it prophesied, he risked becoming ensnared by the Void. The dream foretold that Ross would kill Simon Lawrence, the Wizard of Oz.
It also foretold that he would kill her. But it hadn’t done that until last night.
Because until these past few days, she hadn’t been a part of his present life at all, had she?
She stared at the lighted window of a newsstand across the way, thinking. John Ross had told her about his dreams five years earlier. His dreams of the future were fluid, because the future was fluid and could be changed by what happened in the present. It was what he was expected to accomplish as a Knight of the Word. It was his mission. Change those events that will hasten a decline in civilization and the fall of mankind. Change a few events, only a few, and the balance of magic can be maintained and the Void kept at bay.
What if, in this instance, the Lady was playing at the same game? What if the Lady had sent Nest to John Ross strictly for the purpose of introducing a new element into the events of his dream? Ross would listen to Nest, the Lady had told her through Ariel. Her words would carry a weight that the words of others could not. But it hadn’t worked out that way, had it? It wasn’t what she’d said to Ross that had made a difference. It was what had happened to her in the park. It was the way in which her presence had affected the demon that, in turn, had affected him. Like dominos toppling into one another. Could that have been the Lady’s purpose in sending her to Ross all along?
Nest took a slow, deep breath and let it out again. It wasn’t so strange to imagine there were games being played with human lives. It had happened before, and it had happened to her. Pick had warned her the Word never revealed everything, and what appeared to be true frequently was not. He had warned her to be careful.
That triggered an unpleasant thought. Perhaps the Lady knew Nest’s presence would affect John Ross’s dream, would change it to include her, jolting Ross out of his complacent certainty he was not at risk.
If so, it meant the Word was using her as bait.
When John Ross left Nest, he didn’t go back to Pass/Go or to his apartment. He walked down First Avenue to a Starbucks instead, stepped inside, bought a double-tall latte, took it outside to a bench in Occidental Park, and sat down. The day was still sunny and bright, the cool snap of autumn just a whisper on the back of the breezes blowing off the sound. Ross sipped at his latte thoughtfully, warmed his hands on the container, and watched people walk by.
He kept thinking he would have a revelation regarding the demon’s identity. He was certain that if he thought about the puzzle hard enough, if he looked at it in just the right way, he would figure it out. There were only a handful of possibilities, after all. A lot of people worked at Fresh Start and Pass/Go, but only a few were close to him. And once you eliminated Ray Hapgood and Stef and certainly Simon, there weren’t many candidates left.
But each time he considered a likely suspect, some incongruity or contradictory piece of evidence would intervene to demonstrate he was on the wrong track. The fact remained that no one seemed to be the right choice. His confusion was compounded by his complete failure to understand what his dream about killing Simon Lawrence had to do with anything. The demon’s subterfuge was so labyrinthine he could not unravel it.
He finished the latte and crumpled the empty container. He was running out of ideas and choices. He would have to keep his promise to Nest and subtract himself from the equation.
Dumping the latte container in a trash can, he began walking back to his apartment. He wouldn’t even bother going in to work. He would just pack an overnight bag, call Stef, have her meet him, and walk down to the ferry terminal. Maybe they would go up to Victoria for a few days. Stay at the Empress. Have high tea. Visit the Buchart Gardens. Pretend they were real people.
He was almost to the front door of his apartment building when he heard his name called. He turned to watch a heavyset, rumpled man come up the sidewalk to greet him.
“Mr. Ross?” the man inquired, as if to make sure.
Ross nodded, leaning on his walking stick, trying to place the other’s face.
“We haven’t met,” the newcomer said, and extended his hand. “I’m Andrew Wren, from The New York Times.”
The investigative reporter, Ross thought warily. He took the proffered hand and shook it. “How do you do, Mr. Wren?”
The professional face beamed behind rimless glasses. “The people at Pass/Go thought I might find you here. I came by earlier, but you were out. I wonder if I could speak with you a moment?”
Ross hesitated. This was probably about Simon. He didn’t want to talk to Wren, particularly just then, but he was afraid that if he refused it would look bad for the Wiz.
“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 f
umbled 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?