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 museum.
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.
One of the security guards walked up to him and asked to see his invitation. Staying calm when he felt anything but, he said he had forgotten it, but he was employed at Fresh Start and was on the guest list. The guard asked for identification, which Ross produced. The guard seemed satisfied. Ross asked him if he had seen Simon Lawrence, but the guard said he had been working the door and hadn't seen anyone who might have entered another way.
Ross thanked him and walked past, eyes scanning the lobby, then the upper levels. There was no sign of Simon. He was feeling edgy again, thinking Stef had been right, he shouldn't have came, he should have let it go.
One of the servers came up to him with a mask. `Everyone gets a mask at this party,' she enthused, handing him his.' Do you want me to take your coat?'
Ross declined her offer, not expecting to stay beyond talking with Simon, and then, because she seemed to expect it, he slipped on the mask. It was a black nylon sheath that covered the upper half of his face. It made him feel vaguely sinister amid the skeleton suits and Halloween trimmings.
He looked around some more without success for Simon and was about to move on to the reception desk when a security guard from the upper mezzanine area came down the steps toward him, waving to catch his attention.
'Mr. Ross?' he asked. When Ross nodded, the guard said, 'Mr. Lawrence is waiting for you on the second floor in the Special Exhibition Hall. He said to go on up'
Ross caught himself staring at the guard in surprise, but then thanked him quickly and moved away. Simon was waiting for him? He began to climb the Grand Stairway without even considering the elevator, the broad steps leading up from the brightness of the lobby and mezzanine to the more shadowy rooms of the display halls above. He ascended at a steady pace through the rams and camels, through the civilian and military guardians, their eyes blank and staring, their expressions fixed, sculptures warding artefacts and treasures of the dead. Servers bustled by, skeleton costumes rippling, masks in place. He glanced at his watch. The evening's events were scheduled to begin in less than thirty minutes.
At the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked around. Below, the Grand Stairway stretched downward in a smooth flow of steps, arches, and glass windows to the array of finger foods, drinks, and serving people. Ahead, the hallway wound back on itself up a short flight of stairs to the exhibition rooms. Simon Lawrence was nowhere to be seen.
A ripple of apprehension ran down his spine. What was Simon doing up here?
He climbed the short flight of stairs and walked down the hallway into the exhibition rooms. The lights were dim, the red oak walls draped with shadows. There was a display of Chihulyglass that shimmered in bright splashes of colour beneath directional lighting. Fire reds, sun–bright yellows, ocean blues, and deep purples lent a festive air to the semidark. Ross walked on, passing other exhibits in other areas, searching. The sound of his footfalls echoed eerily.
Then abruptly, shockingly, Simon Lawrence stepped out from behind a display directly to one side and said. `Why are you here, John?'
Ross started in spite of himself, then took a quick breath to steady the rapid beating of his heart and faced the other man squarely. 'I came to ask you if what Stef told me was true'
Simon smiled. He was dressed in a simple black tuxedo that
made him look taller and broader than Ross knew him to be and lent him an air of smooth confidence. `Which part, John? That I fired you for stealing money from the project? That I chose to do it without talking to you first? That I did it to distance myself from you?' He paused. `The answer is yes to all'
John stared at him in disbelief. Somehow, he hadn't expected Simon to find it so easy to say it to his face. `Why?' he managed, shaking his head slowly. `I haven't done anything, Simon. I didn't steal that money'
Simon Lawrence moved out of the shadows and came right up to Ross, stopping so close to him that Ross could see the silvery glitter of his eyes. `I know that,' Simon said softly. `I did'
Ross blinked. `Simon, why-'
The other man interrupted smoothly, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. `You know why, John'
John Ross felt the ground shift under his feet, as if the stone had turned to quicksand and was about to swallow him up. In that instant of confusion and dismay, Simon Lawrence snatched away his staff, wrenching it from his grasp with a sudden, vicious twist, then stepped back swiftly out of reach, leaving Ross tottering on his bad leg.
`I set fire to Fresh Start as well, John,' Simon went on smoothly, cradling the staff beneath one arm. `I killed Ray Hapgood. Everything you think I might have done, I probably did. I did it to destroy the programs, to undermine the Simon Lawrence legend, the mystique of the Wiz, which, after all, I created in the first place. I did it to further the aims I really serve and not those I have championed as a part of my disguise. But you guessed as much already, or you wouldn't be here'
Ross was fighting to keep from attempting to rush Simon or the thing that pretended at being Simon. An attack would only result in Ross falling on his face. He had to hope the other might come close enough to be grappled with, might make a mistake born of overconfidence.