A Life Transparent (15 page)

I will show you, Mr. Candle. You will see there is nothing underneath you but a waste of flesh and a wealth of lies.

I’m not a liar
, Donovan wanted to cry, but his body’s actions were no longer his own. He stepped outside of himself, becoming an observer as his body tore itself apart one piece at a time. The visage was one of meat and bone, devoid of flesh, eyes inset in a state of constant shock.

From these ghoulish remains came a voice. “I am perfectly content.”

There came an airy pop as each of his eyes plopped from his head and dangled just below his nose.

Don
, he heard a voice say.

Donovan.

He tried to scream as his former self decayed before him, but he found himself unable to make utterance. There existed only the hushed sound of movement, of little legs scampering across the black divide.

“Donovan, wake up.”

The Cretins swarmed the pile of flesh at his feet, consuming his remains. The last thing he heard before consciousness pulled him from that black abyss was the sound of Dullington laughing—not from somewhere else, somewhere above or around—but from within.

•  •  •

Donovan squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked up. Michael stared down at him, a mug in his hand.

“You okay?”

Pale light filtered through the window. He looked around the room, confused about how he got there. Fragments of the dream clung to his conscious mind, taunting him with flashes of Aleister Dullington and his monochromatic minions. Donovan ran a hand across his face, feeling for scars left by his nightmare, but it just came away wet with perspiration.

“Don?”

The previous day rushed back to him. He frowned, shook off the dream, and let out slow yawn.

“You were struggling in your sleep. I heard you talking.”

Donovan thought of the nightmare, fighting back a chill.

“I’m okay,” he said. “What time is it?”

Michael placed the mug on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.

“It’s almost ten.”

“Did anyone—”

“No one’s called.” Michael pointed to the mug. “I made you some coffee. I hope you like it black.”

Donovan sat up, leaned against the headboard, and reached for the mug. It was bitter and burned his tongue, but he didn’t mind. Michael yawned, and Donovan noticed the scruff on his face.

“You look like shit.”

Michael smirked. “Thanks. I’m usually not up this early on a Saturday.”

“Still a night owl?”

“Always.” Michael got up, went to the door. “I did a little digging last night, found some things. It’s downstairs, for when you’re ready.”

Donovan took another sip of the coffee. He climbed out of bed and stood at the window, gazing out at the overcast morning. The surrounding neighborhood was affluent, with SUVs and sports cars in the driveways of cookie-cutter homes as far as he could see. He remembered his dream—
I am perfectly content
—and frowned, thinking about how he used to pine to live in such a place.

But that’s not you, hoss. Never was.

It wasn’t. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore, but he knew who he’d become was not the man he wanted to be.

A bird cawed overhead. Across the street, one of Michael’s neighbors got in a car and backed out of their driveway. Life went about its business, oblivious to the gray layers underneath.

He thought of Donna, cursing himself for bringing all this upon her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them come. He’d done his share of crying. No more.

He stepped into the bathroom to refresh, then went downstairs to look for his brother. The light was on in Michael’s office, and he entered to find him sitting at the computer, surrounded by filing cabinets and stacks of files. Donovan surveyed the room, recalling how messy his brother had been, and smiling at how things never seemed to change. There were stalagmites of paper rising from the floor of the office cave, mute testaments to Michael’s years spent as a private investigator.

“You’ve been busy.”

Michael looked up, surprised, then noticed Donovan’s gaze directed at the surrounding disorganization. He shrugged. “It’s a living.”

“What did you find?” He peered over Michael’s shoulder at the open file in his hand. There was a photo clipped to the inside, and he recognized Guffin’s face immediately. He doubted he would ever forget. “You had a file on him?”

Michael handed him the folder. “Missing Persons case from a few years ago.” He motioned to the stacks. “Most of these are Missing Persons cases. Been my bread ‘n butter for a long time.”

Donovan forgot about Guffin’s file for a moment, looking at the folders stacked upon one another. Something stuck in his brain, tickling the same place where he’d constructed Joe Hopper.

“All of these people are missing?”

Michael nodded. “I usually get five or six calls a day. A kid who’s run away, or a spouse who’s fled town. Sometimes it’s an estranged family member who fell out of the picture.”

“Do you ever find them?”

“Sometimes,” Michael said, separating a stack of papers into smaller, manageable portions. “Other times, it’s like they just vanished—”

They shared an unsettling glance for a moment before Donovan cleared his throat and looked down at Guffin’s photo. It was a professional portrait, revealing a well-groomed man with thick glasses. He wore a gray suit and red tie. It was the kind of photo that might hang in a corporate lobby, and Donovan had seen his share hanging in the entrance to the Identinel offices. Staring at the photo reminded Donovan that Guffin was once a normal man—not a wife-abducting cat-killer.

In this snapshot, Guffin feigned pride and happiness with a thin, false smile. It was a smile Donovan knew. He’d worn it himself on many occasions, and it made him sick to think of it.

He opened the folder and read over the report. Guffin was last seen four years ago on his way to work for Brooks & Foster, a local accounting firm. Unmarried, no friends, with no discernable hobbies—George Guffin was an empty silhouette of a man.

Donovan looked at his brother. “Do you remember anything about this?”

“Vaguely. There wasn’t much to work with. He left for work one day and never got there. Never returned home.
Poof.
Gone.”

Donovan remembered the desperate look in Guffin’s eye, the way he screamed in fear as the world changed around them.
There are others like you ‘n me. He lets us out sometimes, only lets people see us when he wants them to.

He went to the nearest stack and opened one folder after another. Each contained the same forms—invoices, expense sheets, photographs, testimonials—filed by family or friends desperate to find their missing loved ones. He looked at each photo. Most were adults, men and women from all corners of life, possessed of a smile that betrayed them.
They aren’t happy
, he thought.
Not really.

And now he’s got ‘em, hoss.

Donovan flickered without realizing it. The stack of papers dimmed, and when color returned to the room, he found Michael staring at him.

“I see it happen,” he said, “but it still doesn’t compute.”

“Sorry.” Donovan returned the stack of folders. “It’s not easy for me, either.” He noticed a few sheets of paper in Michael’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Something else I think you need to see. Decided to search a bit online, and—”

The phone startled them. Their eyes met.

“Hang on.” Michael turned in his chair, found the cell phone under a pile of junk mail, and silenced it. He turned back to his brother. “Anyway—”

Donovan’s pocket vibrated, catching him off guard. He’d forgotten about his own phone. However, when he retrieved it, he found the screen was blank. The battery had been almost dead the day before, and leaving it on overnight had surely drained it. Still, the phone vibrated, sounding its polyphonic tones in rising scale.

Michael’s cell phone rang again, joining the chorus. For a moment, Donovan was overcome with panic. Should he answer? Should Michael answer? The ringing continued, and finally the brothers answered their phones in tandem.

Static greeted Donovan’s ear. He could hear the same echoing from his brother’s phone. Michael heard it, too, and mouthed
What the hell?
Donovan shrugged.

A familiar voice formed out of the static, and Donovan felt a lump rise in his throat.

“Brothers Candle,” said Aleister Dullington. “Good morning to you both.”

•  •  •

His voice came out of both phones, creating a reverb effect that mimicked the odd language of the Cretins. Michael shot a glance at his brother.

“Mr. Dullington.”

“Did you sleep well, Mr. Candle?”

“Well enough.”

“I am disappointed, Mr. Candle. You have not yet introduced me to your brother. But that is no matter, I am well aware of him.”

The brothers looked at one another. This time it was Michael who shrugged.

“Yes, Michael Candle, I know all about you.” Static crackled through the line, accenting Dullington’s voice, lowering it into a growl. “You and I are natural enemies.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Is that so?”

“Quite. You seek those who are missed, while I facilitate the missing.” Dullington chuckled. “In some ways, we perpetuate a cycle. You may consider it
good business.
”

Donovan cut in. “Get to the point, Mr. Dullington. Who do you need me to find?”

“And why don’t you do it yourself, Al?” Michael snapped. Donovan shook his head.
Shut up, Mike, keep your damn mouth shut for once
. He thought about knocking the phone from Michael’s hand. His brother’s smartass tone had landed him in plenty of trouble over the years, mostly with their parents, but this time it was for keeps.

“Shall I make your brother a bargaining chip in this affair?” Dullington’s voice was solemn, resigned. “It can be arranged.”

“No,” Donovan said, staring hard at his brother. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Good. I seek a man named Albert Sparrow. You are to find him and bring him to me.”

Michael looked down at the pages in his hand. Donovan saw they were trembling. The name rang a bell, but he couldn’t place it. It was there in the back of his brain, swimming around, avoiding his grasp.

“Who is he?”

“That is no concern of yours, Mr. Candle. You are to simply find him and deliver him unto me.”

“But where—”

“There is a reason I freed your brother from the grip of the Cretins, Mr. Candle. He is a detective, is he not? A good one, by my understanding. After all, isn’t that why you modeled your own character after him?”

Donovan’s face flushed with embarrassment. The secret of Joe Hopper was something he’d never told his brother, but now that game was up. He felt exposed. Michael shot him a wry smirk before returning his attention to the phone.

“Where do we take this guy once we find him?” Michael asked. “And what if he doesn’t want to join us?”

Static hissed through the line once more, distorting Dullington’s voice.

“I
guarantee
he will not go with you willingly. He knows what awaits him on the other side. It is why he ran, and that is your problem to solve. Mr. Candle—”

Donovan closed his eyes. “Yes?”

“Have you given any more thought to my question?”

For a moment Donovan wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but then he remembered the dream, and the long day preceding it. He hesitated, not sure how to respond.

“It is no matter, Mr. Candle. You still have time to answer—and you
will
have to answer. For now I leave you brothers to your task. Good day.”

The resounding surge of digital noise made both men pull away from their phones. Michael sat back in his chair and stared down at the floor.

“What did he mean? What question?”

Donovan leaned against one of the cabinets and shook his head. “It’s nothing.” He pointed to the pages in Michael’s hand. “You were going to show me something else?”

“I was, but your friend beat me to it.” Michael handed him the papers. They were print-outs about Dr. Sparrow’s book, his photograph, and a list of tour dates. “Seems we have a common interest.”

He scanned the itinerary, pausing at the current date: Sparrow was in town. Donovan looked up at his brother. Michael grinned.

“Want to go meet a celebrity?”

•  •  •

ichael took a bite of his breakfast sandwich. They had an hour to kill before Sparrow’s event, and their growling stomachs mandated a stop for food. They sat in the car on the second level of a parking garage a block from the bookstore.

“So what’s this about ‘modeling your character’ after me?”

The question took Donovan by surprise, and for a moment he didn’t understand its context. His mind was elsewhere, away from the demands of his ravenous body and the imminent confrontation with Dr. Sparrow. He was focused on his wife, all the things he feared he’d never get to say to her.

“Modeling my character?” He thought for a moment. “Oh.
That
.”

A cloud of heat covered his face.
Oh boy,
he thought. He’d expected the conversation, but not so soon. He pictured Dullington somewhere in the Monochrome, grinning.

“Well?” Michael jabbed Donovan’s arm. “Come on, out with it.”

“All right. This book I’m working on is about a detective.”

A thin smile spread across Michael’s face. “Go on.”

Donovan imagined Joe Hopper, his face cast in a permanent five o’clock shadow, cigarette hanging limp from the corner of his mouth. He thought about Hopper’s early life, the life written nowhere else but in Donovan’s own mind.
Might as well go ‘n tell ‘em, hoss.

“His name is Joe Hopper. He’s a gruff son of a bitch. Southern stock. Tough guy. He’s searching for someone.”

“Who?”

Donovan smiled, feeling excited about his story for the first time in days. “For a woman. A lady by the name of Mistress Colby.”

“Her first name is Mistress?”

“Sort of. Haven’t worked that bit out just yet.”