The Multitude, стр. 82

“Do you have a choice?”

Heather watched a smoke ring drift to the ceiling. Judging by her reddening face, her signature version of counting to ten wasn’t working. “I told her to stuff it.”

“You said that, huh?”

“Bet your ass! This idea we can be moved around like chess pieces with no voice in the matter is so Dark Ages. I’m spreading grace at work. Employees rely on me for their livelihoods!”

He’d agitated her. Good. Prison time tended to be short on entertainment. He folded his arms, leaned back, let her vent.

“So Asura says, ‘Fine, keep financing losers who can’t afford their trucks.’ Those were her exact words, Brewster.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Okay, so I’m paraphrasing.” Heather glanced around, leaned forward. “She isn’t necessarily on the A team, just so you know.”

He caught his breath again.

“Never mind. I’m just venting. Call me a problem employee. Anyway, Asura wants me to edit your journals when I’m not too busy with my day job.”

Perfect. That meant a never-ending stream of visits. Prison time could get a little lonely.

Not that he was complaining. He’d never been more content. In fact, he regarded himself as downright blissful. He’d traded a stressful career in an unforgiving world for the simple life of an inspirational writer. Thoreau would have been envious.

Besides, he had Carla/Maynya in his pocket, always just an eye-blink away, as Asura had promised—part of his days spent with the woman he loved and part working on a masterpiece. Better yet, he spent far more time in that reality than this dream, as far as he could tell. Or were they both realities? His head still spun when he tried to sort it all out.

Heather snuffed her cigarette and leaned forward again, all business now. “Let’s title your series The Gospel According to Quintus.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

She waved him off. “We’ll go small press with this. The best religions start with a whisper. At least Asura and I are on the same page about that.”

“Wait. I thought the idea was that the world needed a new Gospel. Christianity stays in place, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hold on, Heather. I’m not writing a damned word if you’re planning to change—”

Heather held up a hand. “Fine. We’ll follow Asura’s wishes. Again.” She glanced over her shoulder at a door in the back. “Anyway, I brought a visitor.”

If only. He let out a sigh. “You know the rules. I’m allowed just one per day.”

“I make the rules here, dear boy.”

The lights flickered, and the low buzz of conversation up and down the partition ended. Prisoners, visitors, and guards froze mid-sentence with mouths open and body language locked in place. Liquid spilling from a visitor’s tipped glass hung toward the floor like a crystal waterfall. The wall clock stopped.

He’d seen some weird stuff since his meeting with Asura, but Heather had been relatively low-key until recently, no doubt trying to ease him into the shock she was somewhat more than a working stiff. “Um—”

“Wait here.” She left her chair and slipped out of the room.

The dark-haired woman entering a minute later seemed thirty something at first, but when she came closer, he realized a shaggy haircut, halter top, short skirt, and great diet had chased quite a few years away. Then she got close enough for him to see the family resemblance. He swallowed.

Carla’s mother stepped around immobilized visitors like they didn’t exist. She grabbed the chair, lifted the phone, and grinned, motioning toward the frozen convict in the next slot. “Hocus pocus.”

He grinned. “Heather’s a card, isn’t she?”

They stared at each other, and an awkward silence stripped the veneer of humor away. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

She mustered a smile. “Your friend over there did a weird little mind meld on me. I know everything that happened now. Carla died before you ever met her.”

“Yeah, but maybe I could have—”

“You tried to rescue her. That’s what matters.”

That he did. Still, he couldn’t prevent the lump in his throat over the fact this woman might still have a daughter in real time if he’d caught sight of Gabriella before the little witch had a chance to push them.

Her expression turned dreamy. “I’ve started getting glimpses of Carla’s other half when I sleep. More Heather?”

“This sisterhood thing is pretty cool.”

“Yet here you are languishing in prison. She can freeze everyone in this room, but she can’t get you out?”

He glanced around at surroundings grown no less drab by their familiarity. Dirty, barred windows high up near the ceiling grudgingly allowed some sunlight but not enough to bring life to the olive-green walls, the worn tile flooring, or a row of prisoners who’d lost the luster from their eyes. “The party line is I can do my best writing here, since I won’t have many distractions.”

“And your line?”

“Judging by what Heather told me a few minutes ago, maybe I could have stood up for myself and cut a better deal.”

“Is it too late to try?”

“Six-and-a-half years is the deal.” The frozen wall clock showed no inkling of spinning backward, and he was fine keeping it that way. A gospel needed to be written. A religion reignited. Crafting such a powerful tome could be no rush project.

“You’re two heroes, Brewster.”

“Uh-uh. The only star in my story lives across the portal with Maynya.”

And he shared that man’s happy life whenever he closed his eyes.

* * *

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Quintus squinted up at the overly sunny afternoon. Maynya had knelt beside him.

She smiled. “I’ve married a lazy man.”

He rose from grass as soft as a hammock and looked past her at the tent city of followers, perhaps a thousand pilgrims strong, maybe more. The town of Portus lay five miles distant across the sun-baked prairie. They’d carried their message to its inhabitants these past few days, swelling their ranks with new believers.

Success should have energized him, but he’d grown weary after so many days wandering, so many days scavenging for food, so many days gathering new followers from the