Those she’d taken out yesterday and, tentatively, sketched a few things on an old pad she still had. She tried charcoal and pastel, too, and by the end of the day, she had a few studies of the river and its bridges. It had felt good, doing it, and it was as if she was filling something within that had been empty too long. Something was stirring, coming to life again, and she hoped she could keep that going for a while. Especially if the past week really was an epic slide out of sanity. Robin decided to enjoy the feelings for as long as she could, before she woke up in a psych ward. Which might not be so bad if Jill could visit. They could plan an escape and then—
And then what? Robin frowned. Jill made her feel safe, made her feel as if…She pondered. Like herself. Jill made her feel like who she’d been, when she was comfortable in her skin and spent hours immersed in either art or Jill.
Her personal cell phone rang. She looked at the ID. Cynthia.
“Preston,” she answered, a little bit of anxiety percolating in her stomach. She wasn’t as comfortable with personal confrontations as she was with business. Cynthia rarely called her, so this was clearly important.
“Hello, darling,” Cynthia purred into the phone. “I’m getting the distinct impression that you’re not too interested in continuing our liaisons.”
Robin considered her response, actually appreciating that Cynthia had come right out with it. “It might be for the best.”
“Your new toy from Saturday?”
“She’s an old friend from college.” Robin somehow kept anger out of her tone at Cynthia’s sarcasm. “And it seems you have plenty of toys of your own. I doubt you’ll miss one less.”
“Oh, darling, that wasn’t kind.”
“Sometimes the truth isn’t.” An image of Cynthia screwing whoever that was (Greta?) filled her brain.
“Be careful, darling.” Cynthia still managed to sound sexy, but Robin knew the warning was real. “I don’t like being made to look a fool.”
“I’m not making one of you. I’m stating a fact. You’re busy, and I’m not a good fit for your schedule.”
Cynthia didn’t respond right away, but Robin heard her breathing. Cynthia was rarely at a loss for words. Maybe she’d never had someone break it off with her. Although this was hardly what Robin would call a relationship.
“Then I suppose this is goodbye,” Cynthia said. She didn’t sound sad.
“It is. Take care,” Robin said, but Cynthia had already hung up. Take care? Did she really mean that? She thought about Cynthia’s husband, and about Cynthia stepping out on him every chance she got. Yes, she did mean it. People like Cynthia needed something, but they didn’t know how to get it. Robin hoped she could figure things out, because she really didn’t want to turn into a Cynthia.
Her office door opened. “Ms. Preston?”
“Robin.” She looked at Laura as she set her phone on her desk. “What’s up?”
“I found some discrepancies in the European figures.”
“Oh?”
Laura placed a spreadsheet on Robin’s desk. “It looks like Mr. Hodges transposed these two figures here, which throws off the percentages quite a bit. The good news is, correcting them actually boosts the final sales figures.”
Robin looked over her shoulder. “Huh. You’re right. So do you do this with all the figures that come through my office?”
“Yes. In case you’re traveling and you or the other executives need information, I make sure I have it and can provide it.”
Robin studied the spreadsheet a while longer. “When you say information, are you just referring to sales figures?”
“No. I pay attention, Ms. Prest—Robin. There’s a lot that goes on in a business, no matter what size it is, that higher-ups ignore or don’t notice.”
“And I’ll bet those little things are a lot more important than people think.” Robin straightened. She liked not being “Ms. Preston.” She’d been using formality as a barrier, and though she felt a little exposed without it, she felt more human.
“In my experience, yes.”
Robin nodded. Laura was good at her job. Better, probably, than Robin thought. Eighteen months she’d been working here, and Robin had given her more than enough to do, and usually without much thanks, she realized.
“So tell her that, Preston,” Decker said. She was standing behind Laura, wearing jeans and a different sweatshirt than the last time Robin had seen her.
Robin stared past Laura’s shoulder. How was she going to explain Decker to Laura? And then it occurred to her that Laura hadn’t turned around at Decker’s voice.
“Well?” Decker raised her eyebrows. “You know you want to.”
“Ms.—Robin? Are you okay?” Laura looked over her shoulder then back at Robin, expression puzzled.
“Yeah. Fine.” Robin shot a last glare at Decker. “Um, listen. I’ve been thinking and I guess I’ll just say it. I haven’t been the best supervisor.” She kept her eyes on Laura, but she could just see Decker out of her peripheral vision.
Laura didn’t respond, but her expression agreed.
“I’m not sure how to fix that, but I hope you bear with me as I try to turn this damn ship around.”
“Ship?”
“Mine. I don’t think I’ve been sailing the right direction—never mind. Anyway, thanks for this. And please keep paying attention.” She handed the spreadsheet back to Laura, noting that the blue blouse she had on picked up her eyes.
Laura stared at her for a few seconds then walked toward the door, moving right past Decker, though Laura didn’t react.
“Nice,” Decker said when Laura shut the door.
“Seriously? You’re like a damn ankle bracelet for somebody on probation.”
A smile flickered at the corners of Decker’s mouth. “I missed you, too, Preston. But it felt good, didn’t it?”
“What?”
“Doing the right thing.” She gave Robin a thumbs-up and disappeared. Robin stared at the spot where she’d been standing. Decker was right. It did feel good. Even if it was part of losing her mind. Robin grabbed her coat. She wanted lunch and another large coffee.
“Morning, Laura,” Robin said the next day when she arrived. “Anything not quite right pop up?” Besides me, she finished silently.
“Morning, and no. You do have a meeting at eleven and another one at two.”
“And then?”
“That’s it for the day.”
“How does your day look?”
Laura had apparently decided to accept this strange new persona Robin had adopted, and she replied, “Nothing pressing. I took care of all the packets for the executive staff for the meeting on the twenty-seventh and sent the turkeys and hams out to the administrative staff.”
“Then why don’t you leave at lunch?”
“Ma’am?”
“Consider it holiday time. You probably have things to do for the holiday, right?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
“Oh, I was wondering—would you mind having a look at this presentation I’m putting together for the meeting on the twenty-seventh? It’s about the state of the company, and I’m pretty sure I’m missing things that the higher-ups tend not to notice.”
“Certainly.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll email it to you and don’t worry if you don’t get to it today.” Robin went into her office before Laura could respond. Ten days ago, the thought of giving something like that to Laura to look at would have made her laugh and say something sarcastic and probably demeaning. Now, however, it was liberating. Losing some of her control freak was nice. A little scary, but nice.
She spent the morning responding to emails and doing web searches on art and art supplies. At one point, she went to Jill’s website for probably the hundredth time since the night she’d gone to Jill’s opening. It soothed her, cli
cking through Jill’s online gallery, as if Jill’s art helped connect Robin to a part of herself she’d forgotten. Or hidden. Her calendar dinged with notice of her eleven o’ clock meeting. Robin stared at the screen, and it dawned on her that she’d just been looking at rental property in Seattle.
Had to be crazy. That’s what this was. She was slowly losing her mind, and it was too bad, because she was enjoying some of it, and she was enjoying not caring about this meeting or even about the company. All she’d been thinking about for the past two days was art and how it made her smile to see ink, charcoal, and pastel on her hands again. She rubbed at a spot of charcoal on her fingertip that hadn’t come off in the shower. With a sigh, she dragged herself away from her desk.
An hour later, she was back at her office door. Laura was getting ready to leave.
“See you after Christmas,” Robin said.
“Yes. Thank you again for the extra time.”
Robin smiled and waved and opened her office door.
“Merry Christmas,” Laura said.
“Same to you.” She closed her door and spent the next two hours getting the things done that came up in her last meeting so she could take those results to her next damn meeting. Robin hadn’t eaten anything except some coffee cake while listening to a droning voice share useless corporate facts, so she rushed to the food court and got a sandwich. Finally, the last meeting came and went, and she sat in her office to make sure she was caught up with everything, since she’d decided to take Christmas Day off—the first time in a long time.
When five o’clock rolled around, she shut down her laptop with relief. Going crazy was making her irritable toward her job.
“Good evening, Ms. Preston,” said a man’s voice in a clipped German accent.
Robin looked up. She hadn’t heard her door open. A man dressed in a gray suit cut in a modern, slim form stood between her desk and the door. His white shirt sported a banded collar, so he wore no tie. His hair, however, was slicked down in a way that made Robin think of men in the twenties. She was good at gauging people’s ages, but this guy—he could’ve been anywhere between thirty and fifty.
“Can I help you?” She wished Laura were still in to screen traffic. People showing up in her office unannounced made her cranky, but something about this guy made her really nervous. The kind of nervous people get when they’re walking down an unlit street at night.
“I believe it is I who should be saying that to you,” he said.
A chill shot down her back. Whoever this was, Robin wanted as little to do with him as possible. If she moved right now, she could probably dial security before he tried to stop her.
“I’m afraid your telephone will not work, Ms. Preston.”
And then it dawned on her, and her stomach clenched with anxiety. “The Bureau, right?”
“Indeed.” He approached her desk and handed her a card. If the Bureau had hired him, then he probably couldn’t kill her. That was a lovely thought. Could people die in their own delusions? K Rampus, the card read in raised engraver’s block letters. Beneath that, Christmas Future.
“So this is where you show me my funeral, and there’s nobody there because I didn’t change my ways and I have no friends or family and I’m supposed to regret squandering my life.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Normally, Ms. Preston, that might be something that would help with your epiphany, but I’m pleased to see that you have already started to address some of the things in your life that concerned the Bureau.”
“Does that mean you can go and we’re done?” She really didn’t like this guy’s vibe. She preferred stoic Decker to this. Or even Lady Magnolia’s little barbs.
“I’m afraid not. Once the Bureau begins an intervention, we must see it through to the end. And though it does appear that you have started to deal with a few things, the Bureau is not convinced your intentions are genuine.”
Robin frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You may simply be changing your ways out of self-serving intent.” He held his hand up to keep her from interrupting. “We understand that, yes, there is a bit of that in someone’s shift of worldview. After all, a subject wants to ensure that she is redeemed, and to do that, one must act in certain ways. But the question remains whether the subject is truly interested in connecting with the larger world through a changed worldview or simply in keeping a tally of good works, in order to make some kind of claim on redemption. In other words, Ms. Preston, the Bureau is not yet convinced that you—how do you Americans say—have bought into changing your ways for the right reasons.”
“Don’t you have an intention machine or something you can hook me up to?”
“My dear, that would defeat the purpose of Christmas Future.”
Robin stifled a groan and looked at the card he’d given her again. The name looked familiar. K Rampus. Something about Christmas lore. Krampus. Santa’s allegedly evil twin, a demon who beat the bad out of kids this time of year. She looked at the gentleman standing in front of her desk, who carried himself formally, like a butler at a state event. If he was a demon, that might explain why he made her skin crawl. She caught herself. Demons? Really?
“Krampus,” she said, and she held the card up.
“Well done. Not many here have heard of me.”
“Is it true you beat children for being bad during the year?”
“Only if warranted. Usually when they see me, the problem is solved.”
“I’m not really clear on how a man in a suit would do that.”
He gave her a tight smile and suddenly, a pale red mist encircled his legs and torso. His body stretched until his head brushed the ceiling, a good ten feet above. His skin darkened to a deep brown, like old damp wood, marred with bristly hair across the carved musculature of his arms, chest, and legs. Claws extended from his hands and toes and, holy shit was that a forked tail?
Robin stared, horrified, and two horns emerged from his skull as it elongated into a shape like a grotesque goat’s head. He opened his mouth, and a long, sinuous tongue snaked out, moving with his grin.
She tried to speak but couldn’t, tried to move, but her muscles refused to respond.
And then the demon was gone, and the dapper man with the slicked-back hair stood in its place. Robin’s heart continued to pound. How could this be happening?
“Perhaps you understand, now, how the bad behavior of children can be corrected with a simple visit. And do be careful in your use of names. Sometimes one conjures things one really shouldn’t.”
She nodded, still stunned. This had to be it. Her one-way ticket to la-la land. Because things like this did not exist. Should not.
“Ah, but we do, Ms. Preston,” he said, and she realized she’d voiced her thoughts aloud. “There is quite a lot that exists that humans insist on denying. Unfortunately, it is a bit more difficult with adults, even if I reveal myself. My actual appearance may ensure good behavior for a short while, but not always beyond that.” He clasped his hands behind his back again. “Adults need to understand the consequences of their choices.” He smiled, and this time it was almost genuine. “So, Ms. Preston, let us explore this idea of consequences.”
Robin suddenly fell through cold darkness before she had a chance to answer, but she was sure she was yelling as her speed whistled past her ears. Please let there be a big air bag to meet her when this was over—she stopped moving and the darkness faded to reveal a large room, painted white. Artworks hung on the walls. A gallery of some sort.
A woman stood at the opposite end, studying a painting. She was dressed in black trousers and a white blouse. Her dark hair was gathered into a bun. Compelled, Robin took a tentative step. The gallery’s wooden floor was solid beneath her feet, and she continued walking. The woman didn’t turn around at Robin’s approach and she completely ignored her when Robin stood next to her.
/> “She cannot see or hear you,” Krampus said from behind her.
“I kind of figured that out,” Robin half muttered as she, too, studied the painting. At first glance, the painting seemed like a typical landscape, but the artist had cut squares in the canvas in a few places, giving the appearance of windows. Within those squares the artist had created completely different scenes. A child reaching toward the viewer in one, a car parked on a pier in another. A pile of smartphones in another. Something resonated within her, and she moved closer to see the signature in the bottom left-hand corner.
“R. Preston,” she read aloud. “What the hell? This is mine? I did this?”
Krampus merely inclined his head.
Another woman approached, dressed in a sleek red dress that accentuated her dark skin.
“What do you think?” dress woman asked.
“I love it,” black pants responded, and Robin started. Jill. She moved so that she could better see Jill’s face.
“Oh, wow,” Robin said. Jill had aged. She was easily in her sixties, though her hair didn’t have much gray in it.
“It is one of the artist’s more recent works. Do you know her?”
“I used to.”
Used to? Robin waited for more details.
“Do you collect her work?”
“I have a few pieces.” A shadow of sadness appeared in Jill’s expression, and Robin’s stomach clenched. “And I will add this to my collection.”
“Excellent. Allow me to prepare the forms.” Dress woman moved away, and the door to the gallery opened and another woman entered, this one younger—maybe in her forties, also wearing black pants. Her tunic-style shirt was a deep green. She looked a lot like Jill.
“Mom,” the newcomer said, and Jill turned.
The Bureau of Holiday Affairs Page 10
