The Multitude, стр. 25
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 was 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