The Multitude

by J M Fraser

  What could he blame but a stolen heart? Not only had Carla opened the floodgates for disturbingly vivid dreams, she’d reprogrammed his desire reflex to switch off in the presence of anyone but her.

  “Are you Brewster DeLay?” the woman asked.

  His answer depended on whether she came with accomplices. He stole a visual sweep of the parking lot. One couldn’t be too careful in a country where legions of busted truckers focused their wrath on the dastardly finance company that still had the gall to expect monthly payments during the toughest of times.

  He didn’t notice any signs of danger. Her Honda was empty, and the only other vehicles in the lot were clustered, as usual, at the far corner of the building. His employees liked having getaway cars at the ready in the event the opportunity arose to sneak out the back exit and head home early.

  “Yeah, I’m Brewster.”

  She extended a hand. “I’m Kara Danahey.”

  He lingered in her soft, warm grip and studied her eyes for any signs of malice.

  “You helped my boyfriend yesterday, and I wanted to thank you.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “Igor Tesfaye.”

  He flinched. “Oh. We found an error in his contract and set it right.”

  Judging by her sharp, probing eyes, she wasn’t buying the error story. “I appreciate what you did, but…”

  “Would you believe me if I said we don’t actually make any money in this business?”

  “Neither does Igor.”

  “Touché.” Back in the days when lenders and truckers shared the fruits of a strong economy, a seemingly never-ending series of successful transactions fed Brewster’s desire to make a positive difference in people’s lives. Recent times had proven those earlier successes to be time bombs, exploding into defaults and reversing each well-intended loan into a cruel joke. He looked away from this secondhand victim, unable to come up with anything positive to say.

  “Thanks again.” She turned and headed back to her Honda.

  “Wait. You came here just to thank me?”

  Kara glanced back at him. “Why not earn good karma wherever I can?”

  Brewster almost let her get away. But as Kara bent for her car door, he realized she might have been present when the mystery girl called on Igor.

  “Hold up. How about I buy you lunch and earn some karma of my own?”

  They picked a bar and grill a few miles down the road and sat in a booth near the back. The dim atmosphere heightened Kara’s gothic appearance, bringing out the darkness of her hair while paling her skin to a shade bordering on translucence.

  He sipped his coffee while she teased hers, stirring a sugar cube into it, pausing to steal a drag from a cigarette, and then stirring again.

  “Igor isn’t a dress-for-success kind of guy,” she said. “You probably wrote him off as some sort of deadbeat.”

  “If he is, he’s got plenty of company in our customer base.”

  “He’s a poet, you know.”

  “I’m impressed. We don’t have many deadbeat poets.”

  The joke won a rueful grin. “Poetry and trucking go hand in hand,” she said. “Each leads to heavy drinking.”

  “Funny you should bring that up. Igor mentioned a young girl who told him to find me. But he said he’d been drinking at the time so I wasn’t sure—”

  “A girl?”

  “Yeah.”

  She averted her gaze.

  Brewster burned his tongue on his coffee. “She’s real?”

  “Define real. Igor sees the girl in his dreams.”

  “Oh.” So there it was. Clearly, the trucker’s vanishing visitor lived in the bottom of a vodka bottle.

  A waitress set their food on the table. Kara turned her attention to a bowl of soup, stirring it, scooping some onto her spoon, blowing it cool, tasting it, and frowning. Did she ever actually eat or drink?

  “Your boyfriend and I have something in common,” he said. “I’m a writer, too. Novels, though, not poetry.”

  “Are you published?”

  “Nope. The agents and editors have written me off as some sort of deadbeat.”

  “Hah! A man with a sense of humor.”

  “I try.”

  Kara looked down. “I might as well come out and tell you Igor can’t afford the truck. I could have killed him for buying the thing.” She spoke into her coffee rather than meet his eye. “We went over all the numbers this morning—how many loads he’ll get, how much he’ll make on each one, what his expenses will be, and so on.”

  It was Brewster’s turn to look away. Train wrecks always made him queasy.

  “Can we give you the keys and call it even?” she asked.

  “Hold on.” While the math wasn’t pretty for his typical customer, the numbers were just as bad for Crestview. If Brewster took the truck back, they’d probably lose five grand, minimum, after reconditioning expense and the commissions they’d have to pay some dealer for reselling the thing on consignment. “How upside down is he?”

  “We’ll be short at least three hundred a month. That’s after living expenses. I bring a check home, but my hours keep getting cut.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Cashier at a bookstore. I should have stuck with waitressing. The tips were better.”

  “You just can’t get away from the world of literature, can you?”

  “Funny man. I wouldn’t call it literature, though. Airport bookstore. The stuff is mostly trash.” Kara sipped some coffee and went quiet.

  That should have been the end of it, but a ridiculous, outside-the-box idea popped into his head. He took a bite of his hamburger, chewed and thought, chewed some more. “Suppose we waive the interest.”

  Kara set her cup down hard enough to slosh coffee onto the table. The glimmer of hope in her eyes tugged at his heart. “Would the payments go down much?”

  “I’m guessing as much as four hundred a month. If that keeps us from getting the truck back, we’re happy to do it.”

  “Wow! I can’t believe your generosity.”

  And he couldn’t believe he’d come up with such a great idea. By cutting interest—the company’s perceived lifeblood—he’d actually found a way to avoid a loss, or defer it, anyway. Yeah, they’d miss out on interest income by collecting lower payments, but that shortfall wouldn’t add up to the five thousand bucks they’d otherwise lose on the truck for at least a year. Maybe by then, the economy would be better.

  He dove into his burger with gusto. When he paused for breath, he caught Kara staring at him with love in her eyes.

  “You’re one of the good guys,” she said.

  “Uh-uh. I’m being totally selfish here.”

  She reached across the table and settled a hand on his. “Igor has your back from now on.” She flashed one of the Latin words from Carla’s coin—Somnium—tattooed in black ink to the underside of her wrist.

  Brewster almost choked on his burger. “Can I call in the debt right now? I’ve been meaning to look up that word in a Latin dictionary.”

  She flipped her wrist over, revealing the tattoo more clearly. “Dreams.”

  “Wow.” Of all the coincidences. But should he believe in coincidences anymore? He pulled Carla’s coin out of his pocket and slid it across the table.

  She lifted the coin, looked it over. “Roman? This must be worth a mint.”

  “Who knows? It isn’t for sale.”

  “Family heirloom?”

  He shook his head. “Someone gave it to me last night.”

  Kara went silent for a long moment. She stirred her coffee, added more sugar, glanced at the coin again. “Do you feel manipulated, Brewster?”

  “Huh?”

  “The words on this coin. Virtus. That means virtue maybe? Spiritus. That one’s easy. Spirit. Somnium. Dreams. You were confused about that one. What are the odds you’d meet somebody who had the same word on her wrist?”

  He tried to process that. Couldn’t. “I’m not following
. Manipulated by whom?”

  “Somebody scary strong.” Kara grabbed her purse and started sliding out of the booth. “This mystery girl Igor keeps talking about… She didn’t tell him her name, but I should have put two and two together.”

  “Wait. I thought you said she came to him in a dream.”

  “She did.” Kara slung her purse over her shoulder, glanced at the door as if she had a bus to catch, looked down at him. “And we wouldn’t be here talking if she hadn’t. Sorry, Brewster, but I’m not good at following somebody else’s stage directions.”

  Great. The world’s craziness had seeped into every aspect of his daily life. He couldn’t even have a simple lunch with someone without something nutty happening. “But she was a dream!”

  “Dreams are real, Brewster. That girl…” Kara’s eyes flared. “Real. I have to go talk to Henry.”

  “Who?”

  “A crazy uncle of mine. He knows more about Gabriella than I do. Thanks so much for offering to help Igor.” Kara hurried out of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 17

  Later that day, in Virtus

  The back of Quintus’s neck prickled. He slowed his horse and glanced behind him. Dust kicked up from the road, perhaps a league back. He tightened his grip on the reins.

  He rode a mile east, turned, and waited. The small dust cloud didn’t appear again until a few minutes passed. Whoever was trailing him came on foot, not horseback. That ruled out a soldier. Unfortunately, anyone else could well be hostile—a savage, or a monk, perhaps—maybe a thief. Might be more than one.

  One solution would be to outrun whoever approached, but the day’s shadows had grown long, and the immediate location was the best he’d seen all day for making camp. A bend in a creek cradled a bushy oasis just north of the trail. Rather than give that up, he waited to get a better handle on who he might be up against.

  Quintus swatted at pesky flies and dwelled on the folly of traveling alone without a partner to help keep watch after dark. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, even without immediate danger. Now, he had possible hostiles to worry about. And a vulnerable woman to worry over. He cursed his poor judgment in not convincing Adala to travel with him. If she didn’t want to go all the way to the capital, she still could have ridden with him for quite some distance before splitting away at Navio or one of the other satellite towns when they got close.

  After several minutes peering through his spyglass, he made out shapes in the shimmering distance and breathed a sigh of relief. A solitary man leading a pack mule didn’t pose the threat he’d feared. The rumor of a silver find earlier that summer had lured scores of prospectors into the frontier to chase their fortunes. Most gave up after a few weeks in the baking sun. More than likely, this traveler had been cut from the same cloth, a harmless man just looking to go home.

  Let him. Quintus dismounted and gathered dead brush for a fire. He’d built a decent pile by the time the man and his mule arrived.

  The gaunt stranger did wear the garb of a prospector. Rough leather trousers, a weathered shirt, and a wide-brim hat shading his prickly growth of beard. He owned the proper tools and weaponry, too—a pick-axe for digging and a rifle for shooting game. His shifty eyes were a worry, though. “Snared a rabbit back yonder, but I ain’t got no fire,” the man said.

  Quintus kept his mind on his pistol and flexed his shooting hand, just in case. “I’ve got bread and beans. That’ll do for my meal.”

  The man guffawed—a deep, throaty laugh that made him seem more trustworthy. “Ain’t no soldier gonna win battles living off bread and beans.”

  Quintus set to the task of starting a fire with flint and stone. Sparks flew on the sixth attempt, and the dry kindling caught right away.

  The man trudged past him, leading his mule to the creek. A few minutes and one rifle-shot later, he returned with a rucksack draped over one shoulder and a rabbit carcass over the other. “Name’s Gaius. We’ll skin her up and share a king’s meal, eh, partner?”

  “Call me Quintus.”

  “I’ll be happy to call you whatever gets me a go at that fire.”

  Quintus gave in against his better judgment and decided to share camp with the man, the thought of cooked rabbit being the main selling point.

  Gaius rustled through his rucksack. “Got a pan in here somewhere, for the beans, if you ain’t got one.”

  “Uh-huh.” Quintus carried his own. What seasoned traveler wouldn’t?

  “Picked up some other things, too, this morning in Portus, but mostly things a man ain’t got much use for.”

  A prickle of concern raced down the back of Quintus’s neck. Portus lay well off the beaten track for prospectors, most of whom kept to themselves like hermits.

  Gaius chuckled. “Drawing supplies. Worthless junk. The pitcher might fetch a price, though.”

  Adala. Quintus’s blood ran cold. He had his pistol out in an instant.

  Gaius dropped his rucksack to the ground and raised both hands. “Whoa there, partner.”

  “We aren’t partners.”

  “What are you waving that piece at me for?”

  “Tell me again how you happened to come across that worthless junk of yours.”

  “Steady.” The man eased his arms down. “Ain’t never told you in the first place.”

  “Tell me now, then.”

  “Saved a woman from crucifixion. Her pack was my reward.”

  The grip of the pistol went slippery in Quintus’s hand, and a bead of sweat stung his left eye. He’d let Adala walk to Portus on her own, knowing full well the dangers of the frontier. “How exactly did you save her?”

  “I shot her between the eyes. She would have suffered on that cross for two, maybe three days. They nailed her hands and feet, man.” Gaius was talking too fast to be believed.

  A wave of dizziness blurred Quintus’s vision. “Who crucified her?”

  “Monks.”

  “And they let you just walk up and shoot her?”

  “Shot her from a distance with my rifle.”

  “Then how did you get in close enough to steal her pack?”

  Gaius wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  Quintus needed every ounce of willpower to keep from shooting Gaius cold. But he couldn’t take down an unarmed man. “What other tales do you know? I’ve heard plenty of stories about women being raped and murdered by thieves out here.”

  “Hold on now. I won’t camp with anyone doubts my word.” Gaius bent to his rucksack and rummaged inside again. “You can have her things and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them!” Quintus tried to stay focused despite a wave of guilt nearly buckling his knees.

  Gaius pulled a gun out of the rucksack and dove to the side all in one motion. Quintus dove as well, and each got off a shot.

  For a long moment, Quintus lay on the ground, waiting for some sign he’d been killed—a bright light in the sky or maybe a smile from Adala. She’d be a fellow ghost if he were dead. But the thought of her being murdered as a result of his negligence brought such a pain to his soul he knew he couldn’t be a corpse. Remorse was a unique curse reserved for the living.

  He scrambled back to his feet, staggered past Gaius’s dead body, and stared with welling eyes at the simple belongings spilling out of the rucksack—a sketch pad, pencils, some chalk, and a pitcher.

  * * *

  Brewster awakened in a sweat. Recognition of his time and place should have eased his pounding heart—his own bed late at night—but his anxiety heightened even as the dream faded. Quintus’s failure to protect Adala stirred deep worries over Carla, a real woman suffering from her own Latin dreams, not to mention nightmares about suicide. She needed a champion.

  He glanced at the clock on his nightstand—almost the witching hour. Wow. Both of her visits had come around midnight, and he hadn’t thought to set the alarm for the next one?

  He hurried downstairs, but the glow of a streetlamp out the living room window di
dn’t reveal any drop-dead-beautiful visitors stepping through wormholes into his cul-de-sac.

  He collapsed onto the couch and groped for a reality check. He’d always been a practical man. So how could he now cast science aside in favor of the belief wormholes had reshaped the world into funhouse-mirror shapes?

  By watching Carla disappear, that’s how. And, more recently, by getting stuck on something she’d told him during the second visit. She’d mentioned her hometown. He hadn’t paid the snippet of information much mind at the time, the time-travel story being the larger issue. The wine had gotten to both of them. But he’d performed a Google search later, and he did find a Sanders Creek Parkway in East Syracuse. Either Carla was delusional and thought she resided hundreds of miles away—to the point of knowing specific street names out there—or she was sane and lived on the other side of a portal.

  He’d tried researching a store named Rag Thyme again, calling directory assistance to check within the Syracuse area, but he came up empty. That supported the delusion theory, only he still couldn’t explain her vanishing act or the word on her coin matching Kara’s tattoo.

  He glanced over his shoulder to look out the window again. No Carla.

  Wait, what was that? He shifted around and leaned over the back of the couch, almost to the point his nose pressed against the glass.

  Only a deer. He kept on staring and tried not to blink. He didn’t want to risk missing the reappearance of a woman he’d fallen in love with, whether or not they’d both gone crazy.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Tug Hill Plateau in Upstate New York

  Carla awoke with the glare of sunlight in her eyes. She shot an uneasy glance around the bedroom for clues where she might be. An old family picture hung from the wall from when she was a little girl and her dad was still alive. A dressing table that had been there forever held up her suitcase. She’d awakened in her mother’s cabin.

  Relief barely had a chance to take a foothold before she realized with no small measure of disappointment she hadn’t had a single dream last night—yes, a reprieve from the nightmares but also an evening without Brewster.