He studied her face, thinking she was right, that it was pointless. “I have to try,” he insisted anyway. “I have to make the attempt myself. I’ll be right back.”

She grabbed his arm as he started to turn away. “John, he’s not even there. He’s already gone down to the art museum to help put things in place for tonight’s benefit. He’s doing interviews and … Look, forget this. Let it go. Give me five minutes to pack a bag and we’re out of here. We’ll deal with it when we get back, okay?”

But he was already committed. He could not just walk away, not even for three or four days. He had to know the truth about Simon. He had no idea how he was going to find it out, but he could at least speak with him face-to-face and see how he responded.

Then a very strange thought occurred to him. What if the dream about killing the Wizard of Oz wasn’t a warning at all? What if it were an admonition? Perhaps he had been mistaken about the purpose of the dream, and he was having it not because he was supposed to avoid the Wiz, but because he was supposed to go after him His dreams of the future had been windows into mistakes that had been made in the present and might yet be corrected. He had assumed this was the case here. But he was no longer a Knight of the Word, and it was possible this dream, the only dream he was having anymore, the one he had experienced so often, was meant to work in a different way.

Maybe he was supposed to kill Simon Lawrence because Simon was a demon.

It was a stretch, by any measure, and he had no way of knowing if it were so. But if Simon was a demon, it would give new meaning to his dream. It would lend it a purpose and a reason for being that had been missing before.

Stefanie was still holding the root beer. He looked down at it and shook his head. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want it after all.”

She put her free hand on his arm. “John …”

“Stef, I’m going down to the art museum to find Simon. I won’t be long. I just want to ask him why he didn’t wait a little longer. I just want to hear him tell me why he won’t give me the benefit of the doubt.”

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 on 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.”