Rain coated the windows in glistening sheets that turned everything beyond into a shimmering haze. The park and her backyard disappeared. The world beyond vanished.
She walked to the phone and dialled Robert Keppler. He answered on the fourth ring, sounding distracted. `Yeah, hello?'
`Back on the computer, Robert?' she asked teasingly.
`Nest?'
`Want to go out for a pizza later?'
`Well, yeah, of course' He was alert and eager now, surprised. `When?'
`In an hour. I'll pick you up. But there's a small price for this'
`What is it?'
`You have to drive me to O'Hare tomorrow morning. I can go whenever you want, and you can use my car. Just bring it back when you're done and park it in the drive'
She didn't know how Ariel would get to Seattle, but she didn't think it was something she needed to worry about. The Lady's creatures seemed able to get around just fine without any help from humans.
She waited for Robert to say something. There was a long pause before he did.
'O'Hare Where are you going?'
`Seattle:
'Seattle?,
'The Emerald City, Robert:
`Yeah, I know what it's called. Why are you going there?'
She sighed and stared off through the window into the rainy gloom. `I guess you could say I'm off to see the Wizard.' She paused for effect. `Bye, Robert:
Then she hung up.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 29
CHAPTER 6
John Ross finished the closing paragraph of Simon's Seattle Art Museum speech, read it through a final time to make certain it all hung together, dropped his pen, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Not bad. He was getting pretty good at this speech–writing business. It wasn't what Simon had hired him for, but it looked like it was a permanent part of his job description now. All those years he had spent knocking around in graduate English programs were serving a useful purpose after all. He grinned and glanced out the window of his tiny office. Morning rain was giving way to afternoon sun. Overhead, the drifting clouds were beginning to reveal small patches of blue. Just another typical Seattle day.
He glanced at the clack on his desk and saw that it was rearing three. He had been at this since late morning. Time for a break.
He pushed back his chair and levered himself to his feet. He was three years beyond forty, but when rested he could easily pass for ten years less. Lean and fit, he had the sun–browned, rawboned lank of an outdoorsman, his face weathered, yet still boyish. His long brown hair was tied back with a rolled bandanna, giving him the look of a man who might not be altogether comfortable with the idea of growing up. Pale green eyes looked out at the world as if still trying to decide what to make of it.
And, indeed, John Ross nod been working on deciphering the meaning of life for a long time.
He stood with his hand gripping the polished walnut staff that served as his crutch, wondering again what would happen if he simply cast it away, if he defied the warning that had accompanied its bestowal and cut loose his final tie to the Word. He had considered it often in the last few months, thinking there was no reason for further delay and he should simply make the decision and act on it. But he could never quite bring himself to carry through, even though he was no longer a Knight of the Word and the staff's power was no longer a part of his life.
He ran his fingers slowly up and down the smooth wood, trying to detect whether he was still bound to it. But the staff revealed nothing. He did not even know if the magic it contained was still his to command; he no longer felt its warmth or saw its gleam in the wood's dark surface. He no longer sensed its presence.
He closed his eyes momentarily. He had wanted his old life back, the one he had given up to become a Knight of the Word. He had been willing to risk everything to regain it. And perhaps, he thought darkly, he had done exactly that. The Word, after all, was the Creator. What did the Creator feel when you told Him you wanted to back out of an agreement? Maybe Ross would never know. What he did know was that his life was his own again, and he would not let go of it easily. The staff, he reasoned, looking warily at it, was a reminder of what it would mean far him if he did.
Raised voices, high–pitched and tearful, chased Della Jenkins down the hall. Della swept past his doorway, muttering to herself, giving him a frustrated shake of her head. She was back a moment later, returning the way she had come, a clutch of papers in one hand. Curious, he trailed after her up the hallway to the lobby at the front of the old building, taking his time, leaning on his staff for support. Della was working the reception desk today, and Mondays were always tough. More things seemed to happen over the weekend than during the week–confrontations of all sorts, exploding out of pressure cookers that had been on low boil for weeks or months or even years. He could never understand it. Why such things were so often done on a weekend was a mystery to him. He always thought a Friday would do just as well, but maybe Weekends for the battered and abused wire bridges to the new beginnings that Mondays finally required.
By the rime Ross reached the lobby, the voices had died away. Ire paused in the doorway and peeked out guardedly. Della was bent close to a teenage girl who had collapsed in a chair to one side of the reception desk and begun to cry. A younger girl was clinging tightly to one arm, tears streaking her face. Dellas hand was resting lightly on the older girl's shoulder, and she was speaking softly in her ear. Della was a large woman with big hair, skin the colour of milk chocolate, and a series of dresses that seemed to come only in primary colours. She had both a law, gentle voice and a formidable stare, and she was adept at bringing either to bear as the situation demanded. In this instance, she seemed to have abandoned the latter in favour of the former, and already the older girl's sobs were fading. A handful of women and children occupied chairs in other parts of the room. A few were looking over w7th a mix of curiosity and sympathy. New arrivals, applying for a bed. When they saw Ross, the women went back to work on their application forms and the children shifted their attention to him. He gave them a smile, and one little girl smiled back.
`There, now, you take your time, look it all over, fill out what you can, I'll help you with the rest Della finished, straightening, taking her hand from the older girl's shoulder. 'That's right. I'll be right over here, you just come on up when you're ready'
She moved back behind the desk, giving Ross a glance and a shrug and settling herself into place with a sigh. Like all the frontdesk people, she was a trained professional with experience working intake. Della had been at Fresh Start for something like five years, almost from its inception, according to Ray Hapgood, so she had pretty much seen and heard it all.
Ross moved over to stand beside her, and she gave him a suspicious frown for his trouble.
`You at loose ends, Mr. Speechwriter? Need something more to do, maybe?'
`I'm depressed, and I need one of your smiles; he answered with a wink.
`Shoo, what office you running for?' she gave him a look, then gestured with her head. `Little lady over there, she's seventeen, says she's pregnant, says the father doesn't want her or the baby, doesn't want nothing to do with none of it. Gangbanger or some such, just eighteen himself Other girl is her sister. Been living wherever, the both of them. Runaways, street kids, babies making babies. Told her we could get them a bed, but she had to see a doctor and if there were parents, they had to be notified. Course, she doesn't want that, doesn't trust doctors, hates her parents, such as they are. Good Lord Almighty!'
Ross nodded. `You explain the reason for all this?'
Della gave him the glare. `Course I explained it! What you think I'm doing here, anyway -just taking up space? Who's been here longer, you or me?'