by J M Fraser
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then what are you saying?”
The cop didn’t wait for an answer. He folded his beefy arms and stepped between Brewster and the trucker. “Mr. Tesfaye, these people don’t want you in their office. If you come back, I’ll arrest you.”
The driver took a backward step toward the door but paused and fixed his gaze on Brewster. “You overcharged two thousand dollars. Who needs the money more?”
Rather than try to explain a standard, if somewhat high, finance charge, Brewster went for the sympathy vote. “We haven’t made a profit here in three years.”
They stared each other down until Tesfaye gave up the fight and turned to Heather. “A girl comes along at midnight and shows me a problem with the paperwork. She tells me to go see Brewster DeLay at Crestview. I ask why. She says he’ll have my money. Then, poof, she disappears.”
Brewster’s stomach took a roller-coaster dip. He couldn’t have heard him right.
“Too much vodka,” the trucker added.
“What did you just say?” Brewster asked.
“Vodka.”
“No, before that.”
The trucker spread his hands. “Poof.”
Brewster had trouble thinking over the sound of his pounding heart. “Poof as in Carla?”
Heather edged closer. “What’s the problem?”
He ignored her. “Help me out here, Tesfaye. Was her name Carla?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Are you talking about a woman with black hair? About five foot six, gray-green eyes—”
Igor furrowed his forehead and looked back and forth between Brewster and Heather as if they were the crazy ones. “Not a woman, a young girl, twelve or thirteen, blonde hair, blue eyes. American as apple pie is the saying, no?” He moved a hand to the back of his head. “She had what you call a ponytail?”
The trucker had the look of a man on a bender, but Brewster couldn’t ignore the coincidence of this guy bringing up a disappearing midnight visitor. He’d granted refunds for reasons far flimsier than the fact he might be helping a fellow victim of cosmic jokes. Yeah, this was crazy, but…he turned to the cop. “I think we’ve made a mistake with this guy. We’ll pay him the money he’s asking for.”
“Mr. DeLay, if you folks are being stalked, we can—”
“No, that’s not it. Sorry to bother you.”
After a long, hard stare and scolding shake of his head, the cop mumbled halfheartedly about the call not being a bother at all, one couldn’t be too careful anymore, and so on. Then he turned on his heel and left.
Heather grabbed Brewster’s arm. “Can I speak to you for a minute?” She looked ready to rip his head off.
“Wait here, Igor.” He followed Heather into the hallway leading back to the offices.
“What’s this about a girl?” she asked.
Good question. Now how to respond without coming across as nuts?
“We have fifteen hundred other customers just like this guy,” she added.
“Heather, this man came to our door. It’s a good idea to keep the stalking types relatively happy.”
Besides, squeezing a profit from the ill-fated occupational choices of others wasn’t what he had in mind when he graduated business school. Maybe chucking his career and pursuing the life of a starving writer wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He turned away from her and headed back to the trucker in the lobby. “Poof?”
Igor flashed a sheepish grin. “Too much vodka, no?”
That was the rub. How could he assign this clown any credibility? “Around midnight?”
“Or later.”
“Didn’t you think it odd for somebody so young to be wandering the streets ringing doorbells and—”
“She knocked.”
“Did you ever meet her before?”
“One time in a dream.”
Brewster cringed. He looked past Igor, the cop, Heather. He stared out the window at a world he thought he understood. A world without disappearing midnight visitors and young girls who knocked on doors in the dead of night when they weren’t visiting truckers in their dreams.
Too much vodka. A hard-partying Russian fixating on a perceived overcharge might have imagined the girl’s visit and promise of settlement. A man’s subconscious worked in mysterious ways. On the other hand… Brewster fished a business card out of his pocket. “Would you mind calling my cell number if the girl comes around again?”
The trucker took the card and slipped it into his pocket. “This girl. She’s a magician, eh?”
“Maybe she’s part of a troupe.” And it was high time to track down the performer he’d seen with his own eyes.
CHAPTER 11
A few minutes later
Brewster held little hope Igor Tesfaye would get back to him with more information about midnight callers. Heavy-drinking, potentially hallucinating truckers couldn’t be counted on to solve life’s mysteries. That’s what Google Maps was for.
He did find a Rag Thyme listing, but weirdly located in New York State, not Northbrook.
Carla copied another store’s name? No. More than likely she considered the name so unique and clever, she didn’t check to see whether anyone else had come up with it already.
That left him with a far more old-fashioned search mechanism, and one he wasn’t sure even existed anymore. He left the office building, escaped to the privacy of his car, and called 411.
“Operator.”
“Do you have a listing for a Rag Thyme in the 847 area code?”
“Is that a newspaper?”
“Craft store. T-H-Y-M-E.” He closed his eyes and succeeded in conjuring Carla’s image, sitting her at his kitchen table again. The memory was so vivid he could have reached across to sweep a stray bang of hair from her forehead, but a click on the line yanked him back to the lonely present.
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have a listing for a Rag Thyme.”
He groped in his shirt pocket for Carla’s card. The universe could recklessly attempt to rewrite history all it wanted, but Brewster had proof of his wild adventure. He’d found someone so uninhibited she’d sit in the middle of the street for a time-out when the twisty streets conspired against her, so enthusiastic her eyes sparkled when she talked about her store, and so compassionate she adopted one of his business cards just to make him feel good about his writing. Carla was bright, creative, interesting, beautiful, perceptive. She probably ran off when she realized he’d spent their whole time together trying to undress her with his eyes like some sex-crazed idiot.
She didn’t run off. She faded into the night.
Maybe his parents forgot to tell him about a family history of epileptic blackouts?
Based on the street names she mentioned, the store had to be in the Northbrook vicinity. “Try the 773 area code.”
Long pause…then, “I can’t find a listing there, either. Should I try 312?”
“Chicago’s too far.”
Maybe Carla only recently opened Rag Thyme? A brand-new shop might not be on the grid yet.
No way had he imagined her.
She’d told him the address, 918 Church Street, so he still had that going for him. Sure, a thousand towns from coast to coast boasted a Church, a Maple, a State, et cetera, but if her store hadn’t been located in Northbrook, where they met, she would have been more specific about location when she invited him to come over and browse.
Brewster threw his car into gear and cut through the city to the Edens Expressway. Then he headed north, driving past mile upon mile of fifties-style ranch homes in the city’s earliest bedroom communities until the landscape transformed to the semi-rural look favored by the far northern suburbs. At Willow Road, he exited west.
Like many former Chicagoans still clinging to their toddling town, he hadn’t bothered to learn much about his new suburb despite having lived there for several years. He didn’t even know street names in the local area, other than those nearest his home. So where wa
s 918 Church?
He had a map somewhere.
He slowed, popped the glove compartment open, and rummaged through the mess, finding his owner’s manual, registration, a few oil-change receipts, some energy bars, and what looked like an old hot dog wrapper. But no map.
Gas stations had maps. Better yet, the people working the counters probably knew the local street names. He spotted a Shell and started turning into the lot when he noticed a tall steeple off to the left—the logical location for the street he wanted. He drove over and found an old church next to a small strip mall. The sign at the nearest intersection made him feel like a genius.
Church Street.
He checked out the strip mall. Diner, bookstore, dry cleaners, convenience store, card shop, but no Rag Thyme. This just got better and better. He completed the circuit around a horseshoe-shaped parking lot, then found an address above the door of a women’s clothing store—1329. Four blocks off. He left the lot and headed west.
The area quickly changed from commercial to residential, but all hope wasn’t lost. Some businesses spilled into the housing. A small Cape Cod along the tree-lined street had been converted to a tarot card reader’s shop. Half a block farther down, a raised ranch now served as a law office. He parallel-parked and got out to look for the store.
And just like that, he spotted Carla sashaying away from him down the sidewalk. Her sandal heels clicked the pavement, her hips swayed, and her tight skirt flashed a purple and pink zigzag for the angels to behold.
“Carla!” The echo of his shout still rang in his ears when he realized his mistake. This woman’s hair seemed wrong, sweeping too long over her shoulders and cut differently.
Two young girls raced out of a driveway all knobby knees and ponytails, shouting “Mommy!” in unison. They wrapped their arms around the woman’s legs and spun her.
Now face-to-face with Brewster, the woman fixed him with a quizzical stare.
One of the girls looked up at him with gleaming eyes. “We found a rabbit!”
“Under the porch,” the other squealed.
He tried to fight past the ache of disappointment and fake something resembling enthusiasm. “Wow.”
“Yeah!”
“Can I help you?” The woman flashed a smile, friendly enough despite his intrusion on one of those cheerful, domestic moments that worked best without the presence of annoying morons.
What had he been thinking to jump all over the first dark-haired woman who happened to strut down the street in a pair of heels? He gathered himself and tried to act like a guy who had a clue. “I’m looking for this shop.” He fished Carla’s card out of his shirt pocket and held it up for her.
“That’s a cute store name.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Not even a hint?” His cheeks burned. Enough already. Why not go door to door, ringing bells and begging for clues?
The girls tugged their mom away, but before disappearing into the house, she turned back. “Wait!”
At last, a glimmer of hope! Good-bye burning cheeks and hello beating heart.
“The addresses don’t go that low here. Are you sure you’ve got the right suburb?”
He couldn’t be sure of anything except the air rushing out of his balloon.
* * *
Same day, different town
Carla worried her fingers over Brewster’s business card for so long the edges frayed. She forced herself to set it down on the little desk in her bedroom and think about something else. Her mom popped into her head. She’d be stopping at the store for lunch on Wednesday. Maybe they could chat about insanity.
She pulled up a chair and booted up her computer.
A Google search of schizophrenia yielded a ton of hits. She opened one and found a list of possible symptoms.
Voices in the head? Nope.
Blackouts? Uh-uh. Well, maybe kinda.
Delusions?
Oh hell, what was the point? The science of mental health didn’t come anywhere near explaining what had happened. Her hour with Brewster DeLay was no delusion. She still had his card.
She picked the thing up for the thousandth time. The night earlier, she’d been too distracted by his smile, his blue eyes, and a carefree muddle of sandy hair to read more than the motto, Words escape me, when he handed it over. She hadn’t focused on his impossible address.
Northbrook, Illinois, was one hell of a long distance to walk from Syracuse, New York!
She’d been born on Friday the thirteenth. When she was young, the brattiest kids seized the opportunity to call her a witch.
So what had she done this past night, gone for a ride on her broomstick?
CHAPTER 12
A day later, at midnight
Carla opened her eyes and gazed down a grimy stairway into a manmade netherworld. Vertigo lurched her stomach. She steadied herself with a hand on the railing.
Hordes of commuters swept up from below, jostling her in their haste to make meetings, dinner dates, shopping excursions, Broadway shows. Others hurried against the flow—down to the subway—their subterranean passage to a different place where they might escape the smell of exhaust and street-vendor hot dogs and garbage all mixed together, the constant clatter, the buildings rising to dizzying, vaguely ominous heights, and the waves of yellow taxis clogging the streets.
She’d seen this movie before, and she nailed the opening scene for what it was, the beginning of a recurring nightmare. She was dreaming, caught in a subconscious loop that had been torturing her for months. But hope throbbed in her chest, for with newfound awareness came an exciting idea, the possibility of rebellion. She wouldn’t head down the stairs this time. She’d seize control and turn away, perhaps buy one of those street-vendor hot dogs or go shopping at Macy’s. Anything but go near a train.
Carla tried to turn right…and her body went left. She wanted to back away from the stairs, but her body plunged forward. Hope flat-lined into despair, and defeat signaled its triumph by shoving a cloud across the sun, shadowing the scene into a more appropriate nightmare scenario.
As if trapped in someone else’s head, she stared out the eyeholes but had no control over the reflexes. Her zombie body took a step down on its own, followed by another, again and again, bent to the task of reaching the station below. The street noise diminished, replaced by the deafening roar of a subway train in the tunnel. Always such a racket! In the suicide dream, she never escaped it.
She reached the gate, dropped a token into the slot, and passed through to a shorter flight of stairs down to the platform. Dampness chilled her bones. The station’s grime brought to mind a bat cave littered with scattered patches of human guano—cigarette butts, spit, wrappers, and a few unidentified, oily-looking spots.
Presuming the pattern in earlier renditions still held, she did have choices. Each dream had minor variations. She could pause on a bench if she wanted, but a gum-chewing jerk in a hooded sweatshirt usually sat beside her, invading her space by leaning too close.
Instead, she selected the straightforward script and stepped up to the edge of the platform, beyond the yellow safety line. She looked down at the cold steel rails of track, then across to the same billboard ads she’d seen dozens of times—perfume, clothing, shows. Those encased in plastic were cracked, the ones papered onto the wall were peeling, and all had been tagged by street artists who somehow got away with it, despite the threat of an occasional transit police patrol and the seemingly constant presence of waiting passengers.
A high-pitched screech signaled the approach of a train from within the dark recesses of the tunnel. Carla would have slumped her shoulders if she could, resigned as she was to her doom.
Someone’s shadow approached from behind. A man.
“I don’t understand why you’d stand so close to the track,” he shouted. “You told me you wouldn’t.” He settled a hand on her shoulder with a gentle, familiar touch.
He soothed her. He was someon
e she loved. But for the life of her, and her life was at stake, she couldn’t remember who he was.
“Do you think I have a choice?” she asked.
He slid his hand down to grip her forearm. “I hoped you did.”
The line of an oft-repeated script rose to the surface. She tightened her lips to prevent the words from escaping.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She clenched her teeth but couldn’t prevent the death sentence from vomiting out of her mouth. “I want you to push me in front of the train.”
“You’re talking crazy, Carla.”
Yes, crazy. She screamed to erase her words, but the deafening train drowned her cry. Its lead car burst out of the tunnel and into the station with a grinning skull tagged to its front window by an underground artist with amazing talent.
The man tugged her arm toward safety.
Carla couldn’t stop herself from twisting out of his grasp, losing her balance, and falling to the tracks. The train leapt up to her in an instant, its horn blaring, and its brakes showering the platform with sparks.
And then…
The smell of forest, earth, and grazing animals, the blinding sunlight, and the white noise of crickets ushered Carla into another world entirely. Back on her feet, heart racing, breath coming in gasps, she revolved in a slow half circle, sweeping her gaze from forest to glen to her thatch-roofed cottage before sinking to her knees. Her crossbow fell from her hands.
Once again, death in the subway served as a portal from one dream to the next. Hadn’t it? If not, what just happened? Perhaps a wormhole in the cosmos allowed her to exist in more than one reality at the same time. That idea had great appeal over the more likely possibility. She was a crazy woman, a schizophrenic, a mishmash of personalities competing for a single body—the Carla who ran Rag Thyme in Syracuse, the Carla who asked a familiar but anonymous man to help her commit suicide in a New York City subway station, and this Carla who lived in a place known as Sanctimonia, where she guarded the far boundary of her village grounds against raiders.
