A Knight of the Word

by Brooks, Terry

  She set the can of root beer down on the table. `John, don't do this'

  `What can it hurt'

  "Your pride, for one thing: She was seething. Her exquisite features were 'calm and settled, but her eyes were angry. `You don't have anything to prove to Simon Lawrence, certainly not anything more than he should have to prove to you. Those are his signatures an those bank accounts, too. Why isn't it just as likely he's to blame?'

  Ross put his, finger to her lips. `Because he's the Wiz, and I'm not'

  She shook her head vehemently, her anger edging loser to a breakout. `I don't care who he is. You don't have to prove anything.'

  "I just want to talk with him."

  She didn't saw anything for a moment, studying him with a mix of resignation and dismay, as if realising all the arguments in the world had been suddenly rendered useless. `I'm not going to change your mind on this, am I?'

  He smiled, trying to take the edge off the moment. `No, but I love you for trying. Go pack your bag. Wait for me. I'll be back inside of an hour, and then we'll go'

  He kissed her mouth, then walked over to the front closet and pulled on his greatcoat. She was still standing there, staring after him, as he went out the door.

  Nest Freemark rode back into the city from the airport in impatient silence, staring out at the sun as it dropped westward toward the Olympics. It was already growing dark, the days shortened down to a little more than eight hours, the nights lengthening in response to the coming of the winter solstice, Shadows crept and pooled all across the wooded slopes of the city's hills, swallowing up the last of the light.

  She had thought to call ahead, to reach Ross by telephone, but what she had to say would be better coming from her in person. He might believe her then. She might stand a chance of convincing him.

  She exhaled wearily, peering out at the descending, dark. This was going to be a much harder task than the one the Lady had given her.

  The taxi rolled onto the off-ramp at Seneca and down to Pioneer Square. The district's turn-of-the-century lamps were already lit, the shadows of the city's tall buildings stretching dark fingers to gather in dwindling slivers of daylight. The taxi pulled up at the curb beside the burned-out hulk of Fresh Start, and she paid the driver and jumped out, bag in hand. The taxi -drove away, and she stood there, gathering her thoughts. She realized how cold it had gotten, a brisk wind whipping out of the northwest down Second Avenue's broad corridor, and she slipped hurriedly into her new jacket.

  She turned and looked across the intersection at Waterfall Park and the apartment building where John Ross lived with Stefanie Winslow. The wind buffeted her gangly form as she stood there and tried to decide what she should do.

  Finally, she picked up her bag and turned the corner to walk up Main Street to Pass/Go. She entered the reception area and glanced around. Except for the lady working the intake desk, the room was empty.

  She moved over to the desk, taking several deep breaths to slow the pounding of her heart, masking her trepidation and urgency with a smile. `Is John Ross here?' she asked.

  The woman at the desk shook her head without looking up. She seemed anxious to stick with her paperwork. 'He didn't come in today. Can I help you?'

  `My name is Nest Freemark. I'm a friend. I need to speak with him right away. It's rather urgent. Can you give him a call for me at his apartment? Or would you let me have his number?'

  The woman smiled in a way that let Nest know right off the bat she wasn't about to do either. 'I'm sorry, but our policy is-'

  'Well, look who's back!' Della Jenkins strolled into the room, smiling like this was the best thing that had happened all day. `I thought you was flying home, Nest Freemark. What re you doing, back in my kitchen?'

  She saw Nest's face, and the smile faded away. `Good gracious, look at you! If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd been in a cat fight with Stef Winslow: She looks just the same!'

  Nest flinched as if she had been struck. `I'm sorry to barge in like this" but something's came up and I really need to find John'

  'Lord, if this isn't a day for finding John! Everyone wants to find John! You'd think he'd won the lottery or something. He hasn't, has he? 'Cause if he has, I want to be sure I get my share. Marilyn, let me use the phone there, sweetie'

  Della moved the woman at the intake desk out of the picture with an easy exercise of authority that didn't leave much room for doubt as to who was boss. She picked up the receiver, punched in a number, and waited, Listening. After a long time, she set the receiver

  'John's been home all day, far as I know. He's stayed clear of here, and I don't expect him in. Stefanie's gone, too. Left here a short time ago. There's no answer at the apartment, so maybe they're out together somewhere'

  Nest nodded, her mind racing over the possibilities. Had they left town? Had John Ross done as he promised? She didn't think so. She didn't think there was a prayer of that happening. He would still be in the city . . .

  `Is Mr. Lawrence here?' she asked quickly.

  'Oh, no, he's gone, too' Delta answered, surrendering her seat to Marilyn once more. She came around the desk and put her finger to the side of her cheek. `You know, Nest-.oh, I do love that name! Nest! Anyway, Nest, John might be down at the art museum, helping set up for tonight. That's where Simon's gone, so maybe John's gone there, too'

  Nest was already starting for the door, shouldering her bag. `Thanks, Della. Maybe you're right:

  'You want me to call and ask?'

  `No, that's okay, I'll just go down. If John shows up here or calls in, tell him fm looking for him and it's really important'

  `Okay' Delta made a face. `Here, where are you going with that bag? You don't want to be carrying that all over the place. You leave it with me, I'll keep it safe'

  Nest came back and handed her bag to the bag woman. `Thanks again. I'll see you'

  She raced across the lobby, thinking, I'm going to be too late, I'm not going to be in time!

  'Slow down, for goodness sake, this ain't the fifty-yard dash!' Della called after her, but she was already out the door.

  Andrew Wren spent the remainder of the afternoon following investigative roadways that all turned into dead ends. He was not discouraged, though. Investigative reporting required patience and bulldog determination, and he had an abundance of bath. If the research took until Christmas, that was all right with him. What wasn't all right was the way his instincts were acting. He trusted his instincts, and up until this morning they had been doing just fine. They had told him the anonymous reports of wrongdoing at Fresh Start were worth following up. They had told him the transfer records that had been slipped under his door were the real thing.

  But what they were telling him now, barely eighteen hours later, was that something about all this was screwy.

  For one thing, even though he had proof of the funds transfers from the corporate accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/Go to the private accounts of Simon Lawrence and John Ross, he couldn't find a pattern that made any sense. The withdrawals and deposits were regular, but the amounts transferred were too low given the amounts that might have been transferred from the money on hand. Sure, you wouldn't take too much, because you didn't want to draw attention. But you wouldn't take too little either, and in several cases it appeared this was exactly what the Wiz and Mr. Ross had done.

  Then there was the matter of identifying the thieves. No one at any of the various banks could remember ever seeing either Mr. Lawrence or Mr. Ross make a deposit. But some of the deposits had been made in person, not by mail. Andrew Wren had been circumspect in making his inquiries, cloaking them in a series of charades designed to deflect the real reason for his interest. But not one teller or officer who had conducted the personal transactions could remember ever seeing either man come in.

  But it was in the area of his personal contact with the two men he was investigating that his instincts were really acting up, telling him that the two men didn't do it. When someone was guilty of something,
he could almost always tell. His instincts lit up like a scoreboard after a home run, and he just knew. But even after bracing bath Simon and John Ross on the matter, his instincts refused to celebrate. Maybe they just weren't registering the truth of things this time out, but he didn't like it that they weren't flashing even a little.

  Well, tomorrow was another day, and tonight was the gala event at the Seattle Art Museum, and he was anxious to see if he might learn something there. It wasn't an unrealistic expectation, given the circumstances. He would have another shot at both the Wiz and Ross, since both were expected to attend. He would have a good chance to talk with their friends and maybe even one or two of their enemies. One could always hope.

  He reached the Westin just after five and rode up to his room in an otherwise empty elevator. He unlocked his door, slipped out of his rumpled jacket, and went into the bathroom to wash his face and hands and brush his teeth. When he came out again, he located his invitation, dropped it on top of his jacket, and poured himself a short glass of scotch from what remained of last night's bottle.

  Then he sat down next to the phone and called Marty at the lab in New York. He let it ring. It was three hours later there, but Marty often worked late when there was no one around to interrupt. Besides, he knew Wren was anxious for a quick report.

  On the seventh ring, Marty picked up. `Lab Works'

  `Hello, Marty? It's Andrew. How are you coming?'

  'I'm done.'

  Wren straightened. He'd sent Marty the transfer records by fax for signature comparison late that morning, marked `Urgent' in bold letters, but he hadn't really expected anything for another day.

  `Andrew? You there?' Marty sounded impatient.

  `I'm here. What did you find?'

  `They don't match. Good forgeries, very close to the real thing, but phoney. In some cases the signatures were just tracings. Good enough to pass at first glance, but nothing that would stand up in court. These boys are being had'

  Andrew Wren stared into space. `Damn,' he muttered.

  Marty chuckled. `I thought you'd like that. But hang on a second, there's more. I checked the forgeries against all the other signatures you sent-friends, acquaintances, fellow workers; so on and so forth:

  He paused meaningfully. `Yeah, so?' Wren prodded

  `So while there isn't a match there either, there is a singular

  characteristic in one other persons writing style that suggests you might have a new suspect. Again, not enough to stand up in court, but enough to make me sit up and take notice. It only appears on the signatures copied freehand, not on the ones traced, which is good because it's their freehand writing we're interested in'

  Wren took a long drink of his scotch. 'Enough with the build up, Marty. Whose signature is it?'

  Chapter 23

  John Ross stepped out of the bus tunnel onto Third Avenue, walked right to University Street, and started down the steep hill. The evening air was brittle and sharp, tinged with a hint of early frost, and he pulled the collar of his coat closer about his neck. He moved slowly along the sidewalk, his gaze lowered to its surface, conscious of a slippery glaze encrusting the cement, relying on his staff for support.

  Still bound to my past, he thought darkly. Crippled by it. Unable to escape what I was.

  He tried to organise his thoughts as he passed close by the imposing glass lobby of the symphony hall, brilliant light spilling out across the promenade and planting areas to where he walked. But his mind would not settle. The possibilities of what he might discover when he confronted Simon Lawrence did not lend themselves readily to resolution. He wanted to be wrong about Simon. But a dark whisper at the back of his mind told him he was not and warned him he must be careful.

  At the next intersection, he paused, waiting for the light to change, and allowed himself his first close look at his destination. The high, curved walls of the Seattle Art Museum loomed ahead, filling the entire south end of the block between Second and First. The Robert Venturi-designed building had a fortresslike look to it from this angle, all the windows that faced on First hidden, the massive sections of exposed limestone confronting him jagged, rough, and forbidding. In the shadowy street light, the softening contours and sculpting were invisible, and there was only a sense of weight and mass.

  He crossed with the light and began his descent of a connecting set of terraces and steps that followed the slope of the hill down to the museum's primary entrance. He limped uneasily, warily, seeing movement and shadows everywhere, seeing ghosts. He peered into the brightly lit interior, where service people were bustling about in preparation for the night's festivities. He could see a scattering of tables on the broad platform of the mezzanine outside the little cafe, and more on the main floor of the entry. Stacks of trays and plates were being set out along with bottles of wine and champagne, chests of ice, napkins, silver, and crystal. The waiters and waitresses were dressed in skeleton suits, their painted bones shimmering with silver incandescence. One or two had already donned their skull masks. It gave the proceedings an eerie look: no guests had arrived yet, but the dead were making ready.

  Ahead, the Hammering Man rose fifty feet into the night, stark and angular against the skyline of Elliott Bay and the mountains. A massive, flat steel cutout painted black, it was the creation of Jonathan Borofsky, who had intended it to reflect the working nature of the city. A hammer held in the left hand rose and fell in rhythmic motion, giving the illusion of pounding and shaping a bar that was held firmly in the right. The head was lowered in concentration to monitor the work being done, the body muscular and powerful as it bent to its endless task.

  Ross stopped at the sculpture's base and looked up at it. An image of the dream that had haunted him these past six months clouded his vision, the old man accusing him anew of slaying the Wizard of Oz, in the glass palace of the Emerald City, where the Tin Woodman kept watch. He had recognized the references instantly, known them to be the museum and the Hammering Man, He had sworn to stay away, to do anything required to keep the dream from becoming reality. Yet here he was, as if m perverse disregard of all he had promised himself, because now there was reason to believe the dream was meant to happen.

  He stood rooted in place then, thinking desperately. If he entered the museum, he was accepting he might not be meant to foil the dream, but to facilitate it. Such logic flew in the teeth of everything he had learned while he was a Knight of the Word, and yet he knew the past was not always an accurate measurement for the present and what had once been reliable might no longer be so. If he turned around now and walked away, he would not have to find out. But he would be left with unanswered questions about the demon who sought to destroy him and about Simon Lawrence, and he would have no peace.

  He held the staff before him and stared into its rune-scrolled length. He gripped it in frustration, as if to break it asunder, giving way to an inner core of rage and heat that sought to drag the recalcitrant magic from its hiding place. But no magic appeared, and he was forced to consider anew that perhaps it was forever gone. As he had often wished, he reminded himself bitterly. As he had often prayed.

  Cars moved past him on the streets in a steady line of headlights, rush-hour traffic heading home. Horns honked, more in celebration than in irritation. It was Halloween, and everyone was feeling good. Some passersby wore masks and costumes, waving their hands and yelling, holding up plastic weapons and icons against the night. Ross gave them a momentary glance, then faced the museum anew. The magic of the staff was a crutch he did not require. He would not have to do more than ask Simon why. There need not be a confrontation, a struggle, or a death. The dream need not come about. It was the truth he was seeking, and he thought it would make itself known quickly when he had Simon Lawrence before him.

  But still he hesitated, torn in two directions, caught between choices that could change his life inalterably.

  Then he took a deep breath, hefted the staff, set the butt end firmly on the ground, and walked into the museu
m.

  It was loud and cavernous in the lobby, where the servers were scurrying about in final preparation. He stood in the doorway, glancing about for an indication of where to go. Ahead and to his left was a reception desk, the museum shop, and doors opening into an auditorium where the announcement of the dedication of city land for a new building for Fresh Start would be made. To his right, the Grand Stairway climbed through a Ming dynasty marble statuary of rams, camels, and guardians past the mezzanine to the upper floors. The prominent, distinctive arches draped from the ceiling were spaced at regular intervals so that Ross could imagine how the inside of the whale must have looked to Jonah. Where the rough-edged exterior was formed of limestone, sandstone, and terra-cotta, the softer interior was comprised of polished floors of terrazzo set in cement and of walls of red oak. Ross had visited the museum only once during the time he had lived in Seattle. He admired the architectural accomplishments, but still preferred the green, open spaces of the parks.