"Brooks, Terry - Knight of the Word 02 - A Knight of the Word 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooks Terry)

'It's that, all right,' agreed Carole. Ross sipped his coffee and nodded, but didn't say anything.
`Then, right on the same page, like they cant see the irony of it, is an article about the fuss being created over the Pirates of the Caribbean exhibit in Disney World!'
Ray looked furious. `See, these pirates are chasing these serving wenches around a table and then auctioning them off, all on this ride, and some people are offended. Okay, I can understand that. But this story, and all the fuss over it, earns the same amount of space, and a whole lot more public interest, than what's happened to these women and children. And I'll bet Disney gives the pirates more time and money than they give the homeless. I mean, who cares about the homeless, right? Long as it isn't you or me, who cares?'
'You're obsessing, Ray; said Jip Wing, a young volunteer who had wandered in during the exchange. Hapgood shot him a look.
`How about the article on the next page about the kid who
won't compete in judo competition anymore if she's required to
bow to the mat?' Camle grinned wolfishly. `She says bowing to the
mat has religious connotations., so she shouldn't have to do it. Mat
warship or something. Her mother backs her up, of course. That
story gets half a page, more than the killings or the pirates'
`Well, the priorities are all skewed, that's the point'
Ray shook his head.
'When the newspapers start thinking that what- goes on at Disney World or at a judo competition deserves as much attentionas what goes on with homeless women and children, we are in big trouble'
'That doesn't even begin to address the amount of coverage given to sports' Jip Wing interjected with a shrug.
'Well, politically incorrect pirates and mat worship, not to mention sports, are easier to deal with than the homeless, aren't they?' Carole snapped. 'Way of the world, Ray. People deal with what they can handle. What's too hard or doesn't offer an easy solution gets shoved aside. Too much for me, they think. Too big for one man or woman. We need committees, experts, organisations, entire governments to solve this one. But, hey, mat worship? Pirates chasing wenches? I can handle those'
Ross stayed quiet. He was thinking about his own choices in life. He had given up the pressures of trying to serve on a far larger and more violent battlefield than anything that was being talked about here. He had abandoned a fight that had become overwhelming and not a little incomprehensible. He had walked away from demons and feeders and maentwrogs, beings of magic and darkness, creatures of the Void. Because after San Sobel he felt that he wasn't getting anywhere with his efforts to destroy them, that he couldn't control the results anymore, that it was dumb luck if he ended up killing the monsters instead of the humans. He felt adrift and ineffective and dangerously inadequate. Children had died because of him. He couldn't bear the thought of that happening again.
Even so, it seemed as if Ray were speaking directly to him, and in the other mans anger and frustration with humanity's lack of an adequate response to the problem of homeless and abused women and children, he felt the sharp sting of a personal reprimand.
He took a deep breath, listening as Ray and Carole continued their discussion. How much good do you think we're doing? he wanted to ask them. With the homeless. both the people you're talking about. Through all our programs and hard work. How rnuch good are we really doing?
But he didn't say anything. He couldn't. He sat there in silence, contemplating his own I failures and shortcomings, his own questionable choices in life. The fact remained that he liked what he was doing here and he did think he was doing some good, more good than he had done as a Knight of the Word. Here, he could see the results on a case-by-case basis. Not all of his efforts -their efforts- were successful, but the failures were easier to live with and less costly. If change for the better was achieved one step at a time, then surely the people involved with Fresh Start and Pass/Go were headed in the right direction.
He took a fresh grip on his commitment. The past was behind him and he should keep it there. He was not meant to be a Knight of the Word. He had never been more than adequate to the undertaking, never more than satisfactory. It required someone stronger and more fit, someone whose dedication and determination eclipsed his own. He had done the best he could, but he had done as much as he could, as well. It was finished after San Sobel. It was ended.
'Time to get back to work' he said to no one in particular.
The talk still swirled about him as he rose. A couple of other staffers had wandered in, and everyone was trying to get a word in edgewise. With a nod to Ray, who glanced up as he moved toward the elevator, he crossed the room, pressed the button, stepped inside the empty cubicle when it arrived, and watched the break room and its occupants disappear as the doors closed.
He rode up to the main floor in silence, closing his eyes to the past and its memories, sealing himself in a momentary blackness.
When the elevator stopped and he stepped out, Stefanie Winslow was passing by carrying two Starbucks containers, napkins, straws, and plastic spoons nestled in a small cardboard tray.
'Coffee. tea, or me?' she asked brightly, tossing back her shoulder-length, curly black hair, looking curiously girlish with the gesture.
'Guess: He pursed his lips to keep from smiling. `Whacha got there?'
'Two double-tall, low-fat, vanilla lattes, fella.'
'One of those for me?'
She smirked. 'You wish. How's the speech coming?'
'Done, except for a final polish. The Wiz will amaze this Halloween' He gestured at the tray. `So who gets those?'
'Simon is in his office giving an interview to Andrew Wren of The New York Times. That's Andrew Wren, the investigative reporter'
`Oh? What's he investigating?'
`Well, sweetie, that` the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn't it?' She motioned with her head. `Out of my way, I have places to go:
He stepped obediently aside, letting her pass. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. `I booked dinner at Umberto's for six. Meet you in your office at five-thirty sharp' She gave him a wink.
He watched her walk down the hall toward Simon's office. He was no longer thinking about the homeless and abused, about Ray and Carole, about his past and its memories, about anything but her. It was like that with Stef. It had been like that from the moment they met. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved her so much it hurt. But the hurt was pleasurable. The hurt was sweet. The way she made him feel was a mystery he did not ever want to solve.
`I'll be there; he said softly.
He had to admit, his new life was pretty good. He went back to his office smiling.

CHAPTER 7

Andrew Wren stood looking out the window of the Wiz's corner office at the derelicts occupying space in Occidental Park across the way. They slouched on benches, slept curled up in old blankets in tree wells, and huddled on the low steps and curbing that differentiated the various concrete and flagstone levels of the open space. They drank from bottles concealed in paper sacks, exchanged tokens and pennies, and stared into space. Tourists and shoppers gave them a wide berth. Almost no one looked at them. A pair of cops on bicycles surveyed the scene with wary eyes, then moved over to speak to a man staggering out of a doorway leading to a card shop. Pale afternoon sunlight peeked through masses of cumulous clouds an their way to distant places.
Wren turned away. Simon Lawrence was seated at his desk, talking on the phone to the mayor about Wednesday evening's festivities apt die Seattle Art Museum, The mayor was making the official announcement of the dedication an behalf of the city. An abandoned apartment building just across the. street had been purchased by the city and was being donated to Fresh Start to provide additional housing for homeless women and children. Donations had been pledged that would cover needed renovations to the interior. The mane,, would bring the building up to code and provide sleeping rooms, a kitchen, dining roam, and administrative offices for staff and volunteers, Persuading the city to dedicate the building and land had taken the better part of two years. Raising the money necessary to make the dedication meaningful had taken almost as long. It was, all in all, a terrific coup.
Andrew Wren looked down at his shoes. The Wizard of Oz had done it again. But at what cost to himself and the organisations he had founded? That was the truth Wren had come all the way from New York to discover.
He was a burly, slow-moving man with a thatch of unruly, grizzled brown hair that refused to be tamed and stuck out every which way no matter what was done to it. The clothes he wore were rumpled and well used, the kind that let him be comfortable while he worked, that gave him an unintimidating, slightly shabby look. He carried a worn leather briefcase in which he kept his notepads, source logs, and whatever book he was currently reading, together with a secret stash of bagged nuts and candy that he used to sustain himself when meals were missed or forgotten in the heat of his work. He had a round, kindly face with bushy eyebrows, heavy cheeks, and he wore glasses that tended to slide down his nose when he bent forward to listen to compensate for his failing hearing. He was almost fifty, but he looked as if he could just as easily be sixty. He could have been a college professor or a favourite uncle or a writer of charming anecdotes and pithy sayings that stayed with you and made you smile when you thought back on them.
But he wasn't any of these things. His worn, familiar teddybear look was what made him so effective at what he did. He looked harmless and mildly confused, but how he looked was dangerously deceptive. Andrew Wren was a bulldog when it came to ferreting out the truth. He was relentless in getting to the bottom of things. Investigative reporting was a tough racket, and you had to be both lucky and good. Wren had always been both. He had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, for sensing when there was a story worth following up. His instincts were uncanny, and behind those kindly eyes and rumpled look was a razor-sharp mind that could peel away layers of deception and dig down to that tiny nugget of truth buried under a mound of Bullshit. Mare than one overconfident jackass had been undone by underestimating Andrew Wren.
Simon Lawrence was not likely to turn inter one of these unfortunates, however. Wren knew hire well enough to appreciate the tact that the Wiz hadn't gotten where he was by underestimating anyone.
Simon hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. `Sorry about that, Andrew, but you don't keep the mayor waiting:
Wren nodded benignly, shrugging. `I understand. Wednesday's event means a lot to you:
'Yes, but mare to the point, it means a lot to the mayor. He went out on a limb for us, persuading the council to pass a resolution dedicating the building, then selling the idea to the voters. I want to be certain that he comes out of this experience feeling good about things:
Wren walked over to the easy chair that fronted Simon's desk and sat down. Even though they had met only ante before, and that was two years ago, Simon Lawrence felt comfortable enough with Wren to call him by his first name. Wren wouldn't do anything to discourage that just yet.