The Multitude

by J M Fraser

  Would the literary agent recognize Brewster if called to a witness stand? At least two dozen writers had pitched their novels to her during the conference, and the woman might have attended a dozen other conferences since then. No wonder that fat cop had been talking up forensics! Jonesy had probably figured out that an accomplice could have filled in for Brewster in Seattle—some unknown person of interest number two.

  Brewster almost drove over a curb. He tried harder to keep his tingling hands steady, stay on the road, and avoid sidewalks whose stray pedestrians—a group waiting for a bus here, a homeless person holding up a cardboard sign there—managed to go through life in blissful ignorance about the hazards of being in two places at one time. After a few miles of strip malls and grocery stores, he completed his nerve-racking drive by turning down the street spilling into Crestview Finance’s parking lot. The cop gave up the chase at that point and pulled over, clearly banking on the certainty Brewster would eventually need to head out the same way he came in.

  A sawhorse blocked the driveway, and a security guard post had been stationed beside it. Brewster parked, stepped out of his car into the brisk autumn air, and tried to enjoy maybe his last breaths of freedom.

  Enjoy. What a laugh. Carla was dead. He had only the sketchiest of ridiculous plans to rescue her. And on top of that, he’d become the target of a perfect frame with no way to explain the situation without coming across as a guy practicing his insanity plea.

  CHAPTER 25

  A few minutes later

  Brewster stepped away from the lobby window. He wouldn’t bring Igor Tesfaye and his girlfriend to the office any quicker by waiting with his nose pressed against the glass. Meanwhile, Crestview’s workforce, his employees, stood every chance of losing their jobs if he didn’t do something quick. That meant putting time travel on hold and dealing with the present.

  He took a deep breath and headed into the conference room, settling into a seat across the table from Steve Franklin. The uninspiring, gray-haired banker had arrived in the standard power outfit—dark suit, white shirt, red tie—befitting his position as senior vice president of First Collateral Bank. His army of similarly clad minions had conquered the place in a blitzkrieg of intimidation, using steely eyes and intimidating, handheld computer gadgetry to win the battle without firing a single shot.

  Word had it Steve would oversee Crestview Finance until the bank figured out whether keeping the company afloat or letting it sink represented the least loss. How fitting! The man had a reputation for being a least-loss kind of guy, a fence straddler who’d somehow scurried up the bank’s corporate ladder without possessing any real talent. Recessions came and went, retirements, layoffs. Whether by luck or nimbleness, Steve had never had his name connected with a big loss, and whenever the music stopped playing, he’d always managed to grab a bigger chair.

  Such a man would probably lean in a bad direction. Any move other than the liquidation of Crestview presented downside career risk for a guy who loved working the safest angles. Steve knew all about the company’s struggles with trucker loan defaults—he’d been Crestview’s banker for years—and he certainly hadn’t been given any reason to believe these problems would go away.

  Only the dog and pony show of a lifetime might change the man’s mind. Tall order, but Brewster was ready to step up and give it his best shot. Anyone planning to battle the cosmos by turning back the clock and changing history couldn’t settle for half measures. If he wanted to be a hero, he had to play the part.

  Someone had ordered donuts. The pastries waited on a platter in the middle of the table, serving as a centerpiece for the opponents to talk across. A blonde underling in an unflattering business suit came in, sat beside the banker, and readied herself with a ballpoint pen poised in hand and a blank legal pad waiting to be scribbled upon.

  Steve spoke from his notes, droning on about this and that until Brewster caught the end of something important. “…keeping you in your present position until we sort everything out. You’ll report to me.”

  Brewster swallowed. “Actually, no, I’m not staying on.”

  The banker set his reading glasses aside and glanced up at him. “Abandoning the sinking ship?”

  “It isn’t sinking.” Brewster pulled some spreadsheets from his folder and walked the man through as patient an overview as possible, given the constraints of a racing heart and a wall clock ticking a steady reminder that his remaining hours of freedom might be best spent elsewhere. Igor and Kara were due any minute.

  The presentation had plenty of detail—bankers loved that—but the plan was simple. A tough recession had knocked most of Crestview’s competition out of business. Therefore, conservative lending practices in an easier market—two other concepts bankers adored—could now transform the company from a loser to a big winner.

  He shoved the folder across the table and looked the guy square in the eye. “You can turn this mess into a home run.”

  Steve pored through the spreadsheets, sliding page after page over to his blonde assistant, who scribbled notes on her pad. Finally, he set the last document aside. “If you believe in this, why are you leaving?”

  Because Brewster had dreams to follow, a woman to save, and a fledgling writing career to pursue. If he never got published, he’d take a stab at consulting or teaching, and if all else failed, he’d be perfectly happy spending the rest of his life helping Carla stuff ragdolls after he’d snatched her from the jaws of a subway train. Actually, if he found a way to turn back the clock, who knew how broad the butterfly effect might be? Maybe Charlie Hanson wouldn’t commit the fraud that brought the wrath of First Collateral down on their heads. Brewster’s stomach fluttered. The world was his oyster.

  “I’d like to pursue other opportunities,” he said. “We have another manager here who’s perfectly capable of following this plan.” He motioned to the papers spread out between them, one of which had gotten too close to the pastry tray and picked up a jelly stain.

  The assistant stopped scribbling, chewed on the tip of her pen, turned to her boss.

  Steve shook his head. “What do you mean? I can’t—”

  “You’ve met Heather Cummins. She knows this business inside out. She’s damned smart, a hard worker, and a complete slave to policy and procedure.” Compliance had always been a prized trait in the banking world.

  Brewster leaned across the table to close the deal. “Here’s the best part. Heather’s a player. If there’s a problem, she won’t come whining about it. She’ll fix it for you. Every time.”

  The gears in the banker’s head started turning in a more favorable direction, judging by the hint of a smile on his face. Brewster could easily guess his thought process. Heather might be valuable in more ways than one. She’d do all the heavy lifting and keep Steve out of the day-to-day decision-making. If things went well, the banker would find a way to grab the credit and bask in the kudos. If Crestview’s new business plan tanked and caused good money to be thrown after bad—money Steve’s bosses wouldn’t be happy about losing—Heather could take the fall as scapegoat.

  The banker picked a donut from the platter, took a bite out of it, chewed, swallowed, and finally spoke. “I’d rather keep you.”

  If only. But the time had come to move on. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  Steve motioned to the spreadsheets. “Does she understand the lending approach you’re proposing here?”

  “She’s the one who came up with it.”

  Steve stared into space. “I’m remembering something unconventional about her appearance.”

  “Heather? No way.”

  “Maybe I’m thinking of somebody else.”

  Brewster pushed away from the table. “Heather’s a straight arrow. Hell, I’m pretty sure she votes Republican. I’ll send her in.”

  He left the conference room and found the architect of Crestview’s new business plan in her office. Heather sat at her desk, busy as usual and dressed conservatively in blouse and skirt�
�nothing unconventional in her appearance, from just below the butterfly tattoo on her neck, anyway. He came in and closed the door behind him. “You’re the new boss.”

  The brunette dynamo, tamer of problems, handler of any situation that might come her way, looked up at him with Bambi eyes. “What?”

  “I’m quitting.”

  The same expression flashed across her face he’d heard earlier on the phone—equal measures of anger and panic. “That’s it, huh? Things get a little tough and you just walk away. People here have families, babies—”

  “Look, I can’t explain my reasons for leaving, but we both know you can do my job in your sleep.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can, and I’m just a phone call away if you ever need advice.” Presuming he stayed out of jail. But he refused to let his mind go there. “Undo your ponytail and let your hair down. That’ll make you look a little older.”

  “Older?”

  “More mature.” Brewster bid a silent, sad farewell to the tattoo on her neck. “The man’s an old-school creep. The only symbols he wants to see are dollar signs.”

  “Fine.” She reached behind her head and unbraided her hair.

  “It’s a small price to pay, Heather. That guy’s dying to have somebody turn this company around for him. You’ll be a star.”

  “Yeah? Who’ll get the credit?” Heather was nobody’s fool.

  “Who cares? Just march into the conference room, say yes to as many questions as you can, and ask for a raise at the end.”

  The prospect of higher pay worked wonders on her frown, almost turning it into a smile.

  “That’s right, a raise,” he continued. “Then you can move your stuff into my office and put your feet on the desk.”

  “You mean after I kill you?”

  He knew she’d be fine once she plunged into the job. Heather had come up with a solid business plan, and she was tough enough to see it through. She had no qualms about saying no most of the time, perhaps the single most important characteristic for somebody tasked with the responsibility of making proper loan decisions. If Brewster had said no a little more often, the company wouldn’t have needed a turnaround plan in the first place.

  He swept his arm toward the conference room. “Go get ’em.”

  Heather started away.

  “Wait. Where’s my trucker and his girlfriend?”

  “In your office.”

  Brewster swallowed past a lump in his throat as he turned to leave. He’d just taken his first tentative step off the grid, leaving no small portion of his self-definition behind. Unless he succeeded in changing the past, he might never find his way back.

  But he’d done something fantastic just now. He’d found the courage to turn his back on the false god of a poorly earned paycheck by stepping down. Heather was capable of rescuing a fine team of employees from the unemployment line. He hadn’t been.

  Maybe he didn’t have a spring in his step as he walked out of Heather’s office, but he had no problem holding his head high.

  He went into his own office, closed the door behind him, and smiled at a scruffy poet-trucker and his raven-haired girlfriend. “Thanks for waiting. I’m hoping you can help me with something.”

  Igor Tesfaye extended his hand. “We have your back, my friend.”

  “Thanks.” Maybe the two of them could find a way to pull Gabriella’s knife out of it. He shook Igor’s hand and turned to Kara Danahey.

  She looked down at her shoes. “Sorry about stalking out of the restaurant before.”

  “No problem. I was hoping we could resume the conversation, though.”

  Kara’s eyes narrowed into the same scared-rabbit expression they’d assumed before she bolted two days earlier. “About dreams?”

  He glanced at the somnium tattoo on her wrist, weighing how much to say. Despite her intimidating getup—black dress, deep red lips, overshadowed eyes—Kara had assumed the body language of a skittish deer. “Yeah, dreams. And a girl named Gabriella.”

  “I went straight to my uncle Henry last time you and I met. He’s strong enough to deal with Gabriella. I’m not.”

  Igor winked at him. “The man is fierce. If you need magic, Henry’s the right guy.”

  Judging by the look Kara gave Igor, she would have turned him into a toad if she knew any hocus-pocus. “Gifts like my uncle’s have been misconstrued as magic for centuries. Let’s not paganize God’s blessings.” She shifted to the door and grabbed the handle.

  Brewster couldn’t let her get away again. Misconstrued or not, some form of magic was exactly what he needed. “Come on. Just another coffee down the street. I won’t bite.”

  The trucker settled a hand on Kara’s wrist. “We have this man’s back, love. Remember?”

  CHAPTER 26

  Lamming it

  A squad car still lurked along the curb just beyond the company parking lot. Brewster scrunched as low as he could get in the back seat of Kara’s car until they got well past the cop.

  His two new friends didn’t seem to notice. Kara had her eyes fixed on the road. Her boyfriend, Igor, gazed out the passenger window, muttering in English mixed with Russian curses about a prolonged DOT safety inspection of his truck. The rig sat waiting its turn in some shop, leaving him unemployed for the day, whereas in Mother Russia, a few rubles pressed into the right palms would have avoided such a headache.

  Not all problems could be solved so easily. Brewster doubted rubles by the truckload would keep him off the fugitive list once the police learned he’d bolted from the office building for good. He didn’t have any intention of returning for his car.

  Another step off the grid. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

  They stopped at the same bar and grill where he and Kara had lunch a thousand years earlier. Once inside, they grabbed a booth in the shadows of the back wall, and Igor continued his rant against American trucking regulations until a waitress came along. They ordered drinks, the waitress returned with them, and the trucker quieted, shifting his attention to a vodka martini.

  Kara ignored her coffee. “Dreams and Gabriella are a bad combination,” she said.

  “No argument there.” Brewster glanced from face to face. Could a hard-drinking Russian’s quirky girlfriend possibly help a man rewrite the past? He had nowhere else to turn. “Let’s forget her for a minute and focus on somnium. My girlfriend, Carla, and I have been hooking up in our dreams.”

  That got a grunt out of Igor. “Hooking up? Kara tells me you’re a writer, but this expression of yours is a cliché, no? Trust your own words better.” He speared an olive and popped it into his mouth.

  “You’re missing the point, love.” Kara lit a cigarette, gazed through the smoke at Brewster, waited.

  Although he might have tried putting a sane spin on his tale for an ordinary audience, Brewster skipped the fluff with these two. Kara had an uncle with “gifts,” and she dressed like the type who believed crystals could heal. As for her vodka-chugging boyfriend, Igor had earlier come to the office demanding a refund based on what a girl told him in a dream. “Suppose I said Carla fell asleep, stepped out of her dream, and came into my house, one year and nine hundred miles away.”

  Kara tapped her ashes into a saucer. Igor grabbed another olive. Neither said a word.

  Maybe they’d misheard. “We’re traveling through time! Carla and I have been bouncing back and forth between last year and this one.”

  The trucker took a long, forlorn look at his drink and sighed, clearly reluctant to spend a moment away from it. “Haven’t you ever visited your past in a dream?”

  How to get through to these people? “You mean in fantasy? Yeah, I guess. But this is real.”

  Kara glanced at Igor and nodded. “Last time we met, I told you all dreams are real.” She and her boyfriend made a good tag team.

  Brewster stilled his twitching knee and took one more try. “Let me elaborate. I close my eyes in my bed and step into Carla’s life, literally.
When I wake up, I find physical objects she gave me in the dream. And the same thing has been happening to her.”

  “Then I’d say you’re blessed,” Kara said.

  “Blessed?”

  She scattered her coffee steam with a puff of breath. “This is us when we dream. Our souls leave our bodies and mingle in the World of Mortal Dreams, a timeless dimension shaped by the imaginations of every man, woman, and child who ever lived.”

  Igor fluttered his hands upward and whistled like a bird.

  She grabbed a menu and swatted her boyfriend with it. “Don’t always make it so hard to love you, funny man.” Then she glanced around, leaned across the table, and lowered her voice like a spy spilling secrets. “Traveling from one time and place to another is commonplace when we sleep, but the ability to leave the spiritual dimension and rematerialize in the waking world is a rare gift called dream walking. You’re blessed!”

  “There’s that word again.” But Brewster’s pulse quickened. She’d implied exactly what he’d been hoping to hear. Other people stepped out of their dreams, too. He just needed the handbook. “How do I do this dream walking thing again?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “It just happens.”

  “Then let it happen.”

  His temples throbbed. “What if it doesn’t anymore?”

  “Good question.” Kara puffed a ring of smoke, watched it dissolve, dropped a sugar cube into her coffee, watched that dissolve, and puffed her cigarette again. “Then I guess it’s over.”

  He clenched his fists. “It can’t be over. Carla and I have had a bridge between our dreams all our lives. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been visiting a scrubby wasteland that seems like a stage set for a Mad Max movie. Carla’s been traveling to a woodland called Sanctimonia. And every one of these dreams, hers and mine, are in Latin.”