Word & Void 02 - A Knight of the Word (24 page)

Wren frowned. “But your work is with women and children who have been disenfranchised through circumstances not of their own making. It’s not the same thing, is it?”

“You can’t compartmentalize the problem so easily, Andrew. There aren’t any conditions of homelessness specifically attributable to particular groups that would allow us to apply different solutions. It doesn’t work like that. Everything is connected. Domestic violence, failed marriages, teen pregnancy, poverty, and lack of education are all a part of the mix. They all contribute, and ultimately you can’t solve one problem without solving them all. We fight small battles on different fronts, but the war is huge. It sprawls all over the place.”

He leaned back again. “We treat homelessness on a case-by-case basis, trying to help the disadvantaged get back on their feet, to reclaim their lives, to begin anew. But you have to wonder sometimes how much good we are really doing. We shore up people in need, and that’s good. But how much of what we do is actually solving the problem?”

Wren shrugged. “Maybe that’s best left to somebody else.”

Simon Lawrence chuckled. “Who? The government? The church? The general population? Do you see anyone out there addressing the specific causes of homelessness or domestic violence or failed marriages or teen pregnancy in any meaningful way? There are efforts being made to educate people, but the problem goes way beyond that. It has to do with the way we live, with our values and our ethics. And that’s exactly what Banfield wrote decades ago when he warned us that poverty is a condition that, to a large extent at least, we cannot alleviate.”

They stared at each other across the little table, the din of the room around them closing in on the momentary silence, filling up the space like water poured in a glass. Wren was struck suddenly by the similarity of their passion for their work. What they did was so different, yet the strength of their commitment and belief was much the same.

“I’m sounding pessimistic again,” the Wiz said, making a dismissive gesture. “You have to ignore me when I’m like this. You have to pretend that it’s someone else talking.”

Wren drained the last of his drink and sat back. “Tell me something about yourself, Simon,” he asked the other man suddenly.

Simon Lawrence seemed caught off guard. “What?”

“Tell me something about yourself. I came out here for a story, and the story is supposed to be about you. So tell me something about yourself that you haven’t told anyone else. Give me something interesting to write about.” He paused. “Tell me about your childhood.”

The Wiz shook his head immediately. “You know better than to ask me about that, Andrew. I never talk about myself except in the context of my work. My personal life isn’t relevant to anything.”

Wren laughed. “Of course it is. You can’t sit there and tell me how you grew up doesn’t have anything to do with how you came to be who you are. Everything connects in life, Simon. You just said so yourself. Homelessness is tied to domestic violence, teen pregnancy, and so forth. Same with the events of your life. They’re all tied together. You can’t pretend your childhood is separate from the rest of your life. So tell me something. Come on. You’ve disappointed me so far, but here’s a chance to redeem yourself.”

Simon Lawrence seemed to think about it a moment, staring across the table at the journalist. There was a dark, troubled look in his eyes as he shook his head. “I’ve got a friend,” he said slowly, reflecting on his choice of words. “He’s the CEO of a big company, an important company, that does some good work with the disadvantaged. He travels the same fund-raising circuits I do, talks to some of the same people. They ask him constantly to tell them about his background. They want to know all about him, want to take something personal away with them, some piece of who he is. He won’t give it to them. All they can have, he tells me, is the part that deals directly with his work—with the present, the here and now, the cause to which he is committed.

“I asked him about it once. I didn’t expect him to tell me anything more than he told anyone else, but he surprised me. He told me everything.”

The Wiz reached for his empty glass, studied it a moment, and set it down. A server drifted over, but he waved her away. “He grew up in a very poor neighborhood in St. Louis. He had a brother and a sister, both younger. His parents were poor and not well educated, but they had a home. His father had a day job at a factory, and his mother was a housewife. They had food on the table and clothes on their backs and a sense of belonging somewhere.

“Then, when he was maybe seven or eight, the economy went south. His father lost his job and couldn’t get rehired. They scraped by as long as they could, then sold their home and moved to Chicago to find work there. Within months, everything fell apart. There was no work to be found. They used up their savings. The father began to drink and would sometimes disappear for days. They drifted from place to place, often living in shelters. They started taking welfare, scraping by on that and the little bit of income the father earned from doing odd jobs. They got some help now and then from the churches.

“One day, the father disappeared and didn’t come back. The mother and children never knew what happened to him. The police searched for him, but he never turned up. The younger brother, died in a fall shortly afterward. My friend and his little sister stayed with their mother in a state-subsidized housing project. There wasn’t enough food. They ate leftovers scavenged from garbage cans. They slept on old mattresses on the floor. There were gangs and drugs and guns in the projects. People died every day in the rooms and hallways and sidewalks around them.”

He paused. “The mother began to go out into the streets at night. My friend and his sister knew what she did, even though she never told them. Finally, one night, she didn’t come home. Like the father. After a time, the state came looking for the children to put them in foster homes. My friend and his sister didn’t want that. They preferred to stay on the streets, thinking they could stay together that way.

“So that was how they lived, homeless and alone. My friend won’t talk about the specifics except to say it was so terrible that he still cries when he remembers it. He lost his sister out there. She drifted away with some other homeless kids, and he never saw her again. When he was old enough to get work, he did so. Eventually, he got himself off the streets and into the schools. He got himself a life. But it took him a lot of hard years.”

Simon Lawrence shrugged. “He had never told this to anyone. He told it to me to make a point. What difference did any of this make, he asked me, to what he did now? If he told this story to the people from whom he sought money—or if he told the press—what difference would it make? Would they give him more money because he’d had a hard life? Would they give him more money because they felt sorry for him? Maybe so. But he didn’t want that. That was the wrong reason for them to want to help. It was the cause he represented that mattered. He wanted them to help because of that, not because of who he was and where he came from. He did not want to come between the donors and the cause. Because if that happened, then he risked the possibility he would become more important than the cause he represented. And that, Andrew, would be a sin.”

He stood up abruptly, distracted anew. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. You’re staying over for the dedication tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

Wren nodded, rising with him. “Yes, but I’d like to …”

“Good.” Simon took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “If the newspaper’s paying, try Roy’s, here at the hotel, for a good dinner. It’s first-rate. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He was gone at once, striding across the lobby toward the front door, tall form scything through the crowd with catlike grace and determination. Andrew Wren stared after him, and it wasn’t until he was out of sight that it occurred to the journalist that maybe, just maybe, Simon Lawrence had been talking about himself.

Nest Freemark found a phone booth across from the park and dialed the number for Fresh Start. It was after five now, the sun slipped below the horizon, the last color fading fast in a darkening sky. Ariel was hovering invisibly against the building walls behind her, and the streets were filling with traffic from people on their way home from work. The park had emptied long ago, and the grassy rise was a shadowed hump against the skyline.

It was beginning to rain, a slow, chilly misting that clung to Nest’s skin. On the sound, a bank of fog was beginning to build over the water.

The lady who answered the phone was not Della, and she did not know Nest. She said John Ross wasn’t there and wasn’t expected back that day and she couldn’t give out his home number. Nest told her it was important she speak to him. The lady hesitated, then asked her to hold on a minute.

Nest stared off into the gathering darkness, itching with impatience.

“Nest? Hi, it’s Stefanie Winslow.” The familiar voice sounded rushed and out of breath. “John’s gone home, and I think he’s shut off the phone, because I just tried to call him a little while ago and I couldn’t reach him. Are you calling about dinner?”

Nest hesitated. “Yes. I don’t think I can make it.”

“Well, neither can I, but I think maybe John was planning on it. Will you be by tomorrow?”

“I think so.” Nest thought furiously. “Can you give John a message for me?”

“Of course. I have to go by the apartment for a few minutes. I could even have him call you, if you want.”

“No, I’m at a pay phone.”

“All right. What should I tell him?”

For just an instant Nest thought about dropping the whole matter, just hanging up and leaving things the way they were. She could explain it all to Ross later. But she was uncomfortable with not letting him know there was new reason for him to be concerned about his safety, that something was about to happen that might change everything.

“Could you just tell him I’m meeting a friend of Pick’s over in West Seattle who might know something about that trouble we were talking about at lunch? Tell him Pick’s friend might have seen the one we were looking for.”

She paused, waiting. Stefanie Winslow was silent. “Have you got that, Stefanie?” she pressed. “I know it’s a little vague, but he’ll know what I’m talking about. If I get back in time, I’ll call him tonight. Otherwise, I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Okay. Listen, are you all right? This sounds a little … mysterious, I guess. Do you need some help?”

Nest shook her head at the phone. “No, everything’s fine. I have to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for helping.”

She hung up the phone and went looking for a taxi.

The demon walked into the lobby of the Westin through a side door, paused to look around, then moved quickly to the elevators across from the lobby bar. It didn’t have much time; it had to hurry. An empty elevator was waiting, doors open, and the demon rode alone to the sixth floor. It stepped off into a deserted hallway, checked the wall numbers for directions, and turned left.

Seconds later, it stood before Andrew Wren’s room. It listened carefully for a moment to make certain the room was empty, then slipped a thin manila envelope under the door. When Wren returned, he would find all the evidence he needed to confront the Wiz with the threat of exposure and a demand for an explanation that the latter would be unable to provide. The consequences of that would be inescapable. By tomorrow night, the Wiz would be history and John Ross would have taken his first step toward entering into the service of the Void.

There was only one additional matter to be settled. Nest Freemark was a threat to everything. The demon had sensed her magic when they had talked earlier that day at Fresh Start. It was raw and unrealized, but it was potent. She could prove dangerous. Moreover, she had a tatterdemalion with her, and the tatterdemalion, if given the right opportunity, could expose the demon. If that happened, everything would be ruined.

The demon was not about to allow that. It didn’t know what the girl and the forest creature were doing here, if they had been sent by the Word or come on their own, but it was time to be rid of them.

The demon turned and walked to the exit sign above the stairs and descended the six flights to the lobby. No one saw it leave.

In the parking garage, it claimed its car and headed for West Seattle.

T
he night was cool and dark. As Nest Freemark rode through the city, rain misted on the windshield of the taxi, smearing the glass, blurring the garish neon landscape beyond. The taxi passed back down First Avenue in front of the Alexis Hotel, then climbed a ramp to the viaduct. Suspended above the waterfront, with the piers and ferries and colored lights spread out below and the orange cranes lifting skyward overhead, the taxi wheeled onto the lower tier of the expressway and sped south.

It had taken longer to find transportation than Nest had expected. She couldn’t find anything in the market area, so she had walked down to a small hotel called the Inn at the Market, situated just above the Pike Place Market sign, and had the doorman call for her. Ariel had disappeared again. How the tatterdemalion would reach their destination was anybody’s guess, but since she had gotten there once already, Nest guessed she would manage this time, too.

The canopy of the northbound viaduct lowered and leveled to join with the southbound, and Nest was back out in the rain again. The taxi eased around slower cars, its tires making a soft, steady hiss on the damp pavement. Nest watched the cranes and loading docks appear and fade on her right, prehistoric creatures in the gloom. The driver was a motionless shape in front of her. Neither of them spoke. Brightly lit billboards whizzed by, advertisements for beer, restaurants, sports events, and clothing. She read them swiftly and forgot them even quicker, her thoughts tightly focused on what lay ahead.

The taxi took the off-ramp onto the West Seattle Bridge, and headed west. Nest settled back in the seat, thinking. Ariel had found a sylvan in one of the parks who had seen the demon a few months ago and gotten a good look at it. More important, at least from Ariel’s point of view, was the story behind that sighting. She wouldn’t elaborate when Nest asked for details. She wanted the sylvan to tell the story. She wanted Nest to hear for herself.