The Multitude, стр. 38
None of this ever mattered in the good old days. The company’s cash hadn’t been any easier to predict, but it tended to grow from one month to the next. Nobody worried over unexplained fluctuations.
“Just break even for a change,” Charlie whined. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“You can take it to the bank.” The false assurance rolled off Brewster’s tongue nice and smooth. Poor Charlie needed a dose of comfort wherever he could find it. In addition to Crestview, the man had the failing performances of several other recession-ravaged companies to worry about. Parker Investments had demonstrated an uncanny knack for buying the wrong businesses.
Brewster ended the call, shifted his gaze to a print on the wall, and pictured himself sitting beneath the willow tree depicted, a thousand miles away—ideally with Carla snuggling beside him. That thought brought the dream back, the water turning to wine, and the sketch of a dead ringer for Carla, named Maynya. Frontier-rugged or not, the world he’d been dreaming about offered plenty more potential than this one. He could imagine himself a hero there.
Why had breathing become so difficult all of a sudden? He headed out of his office in pursuit of open spaces, but he had to scurry through the even more claustrophobic bullpen area first. Everyone’s quiet stares said it all. Heather and her staff didn’t need to pore over the numbers the way Charlie had. Having lived and breathed loan defaults every day, they could smell pending disaster.
At least when he escaped to the lobby, Ronda managed to lift his mood. The eternally optimistic redhead always cast gloom to the wind. This time, she’d arrived in the office wearing a frilly pink-and-white skirt-and-blouse combo—a nice contrast to the others who tended to dress darker as times got harder. She glanced up from the reception desk with a friendly grin before returning to the task of polishing her nails.
“You look like a slice of strawberry shortcake,” he said.
Ronda reshaped her smile into a comic pout. “Are you harassing me?”
“Kinda.”
“We could call the police again. If I’m lucky, they’ll arrest you this time.”
“That’s why I’m lamming it.”
“Good. Send us a postcard from wherever.”
Outside, nature grabbed Ronda’s relay of cheerfulness and ran with it. The intoxicating, early-autumn scent of burning leaves served as an antidote to his malaise. He lifted his gaze heavenward, where a phalanx of geese pointed an arrow to the south, honking across the sky. He almost forgot his problems.
“Excuse me.”
The unexpected voice shot directly into his nervous system. He jumped and spun in tandem, almost giving himself whiplash in the process.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman smiling at him must have come out of that Honda in the visitor space. But she might as well have stepped out of a gothic novel, given the world’s craziness lately and the nature of her costume. A lacy black dress spread an aura of midnight all the way to her ankles, and the red silk scarf looping around her neck hinted at vampires. The woman’s thick mass of raven hair billowed in the breeze and brushed against a rose-and-thorn tattoo high up one arm.
In the past, such haunting beauty might have melted him into the pavement. The old Brewster might have rallied and risen back up, responding with a good line. But he’d lost his moxie.
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