A Life Transparent (16 page)

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Mike. The novel’s been in and out of the works for years now. I guess I didn’t want you to know until it was done.”

Michael finished his sandwich and wiped his chin. “Are you going to try and get it published? That’s still your dream, isn’t it?”

Here we go
, Donovan thought.
It always comes back to this
.

“Yeah,” he said. “Some day.”

“How long have you been working on it?”

Donovan thought for a moment. “About seven years, I think.”

“So why not finish it?”

“Real-life matters. Work, sleep, that sort of thing. Necessary distractions, I guess. And—” He stopped to think for a moment. What was it that he’d found so wrong with the novel almost a week ago? It was too predictable, too bland. He realized that it was nothing more than a reflection of his own life. Joe Hopper was based on his brother, but on another level, he was based on Donovan’s own yearning for the things he lacked: something different, something adventurous, something more fulfilling than the nine-to-five grind he had lived every single day for the last nine years. In the face of his desire he’d deleted the document, frustrated with its lack of direction.

Only now did he realize that frustration stemmed from something far more prevalent than a collection of words. It sickened him when he realized this terrible incident had been necessary to understanding his own pathology.

“And?”

Donovan looked up from his breakfast. He’d lost his appetite. “And the story was just empty, anyway. Dull. Kind of like me.”

“You really think so?”

He nodded. “I do. Took me too long to figure that out.”

“Well, aren’t you supposed to write what you know? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not exactly the most exciting person in the world, Don.”

Michael’s words stung, but Donovan did not try to defend himself. He knew his brother was right. It was a harsh truth he had to face, and it wasn’t easy. He returned to a fact that haunted him: his delusion of happiness and contentment was the cause of Donna’s abduction. His stomach tied itself into a series of knots.

“You always nagged me for not taking more chances. I always wanted to play it safe, and now it’s come back to bite me on the ass. This is all my fault.”

Michael was quiet. He balled up the greasy wrapper and tossed it into the fast food bag.

“I nagged you because I wanted to see you do better. Our folks were always at work, slaving away at their jobs to make it better for us, and I didn’t want us to resign ourselves to that kind of life. I expected more from you because I
knew
you could do more.”

Donovan turned away, staring out the window at empty rows and concrete columns.

“I won’t bullshit you, Don. If what you told me is real, then yeah, this is nothing else but your own fault for being a boring guy. But—” Michael drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. “—self-pity isn’t going to help you. It’s going to drive you deeper into the hole you’re already in. You need to focus. For Donna, and for yourself. Got it?” He reached out and put his hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “And for what it’s worth, I really dig your story idea. I’d like to read it someday.”

“Thanks, Mike. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The brothers shared a smile. It lasted only a moment, but it was long enough. Afterward, Michael started the car and turned on the heater. There was still time before the book signing, and he saw no sense in freezing. Donovan reached over and turned on the radio. A blast of rock music startled him, the industrial noise of Nine Inch Nails making his head hurt. He cringed at the synthetic drones. It reminded him too much of the Monochrome, and he quickly changed the station.

“—ame is Alice Walenta. She is 5'9", roughly 150 lbs, and has long, black hair. If you or anyone you know has information of her whereabouts—”

Her grainy photo from the newspaper sprang to mind. He used to ignore the Missing Persons reports, but in light of his new suspicions, it chilled him to think about how many reports he’d seen and heard over the years.
How many people disappear every day?
he wondered.
How many end up with Dullington?

His gut clenched, accenting his thought with a brief shift of the world’s color. The interior of Michael’s car vanished for a moment, leaving Donovan hovering between Spectrum and Monochrome. There were Cretins standing watch along the garage floor.

When he flickered back, he found Michael changing the station. He hadn’t noticed Donovan’s brief disappearance. Donovan leaned his head against the window and stared out, his thoughts drifting back to the task at hand.

Fear inched its way up within him, coiling around his stomach. What if Dullington was lying and all this was just a game? He remembered the way Dullington frowned when he asked about Sparrow: anger was one of the few emotions he’d witnessed splashed across the pale canvas of Dullington’s face.

No
, he thought
. Dullington’s not lying. He’s too particular, a devil for the details. Manipulative, yes, but not a liar.

His thoughts turned to Sparrow. He wondered what a man could possibly do to inspire such resentment and determination from a being like Aleister Dullington? Furthermore, what kind of man was capable of such a thing?

Donovan looked at the dashboard clock. He would find out in fewer than twenty minutes.

The door was open when Donna woke. She tried to roll on her side and pull up her knees to conserve body heat. It was freezing, and when she opened her eyes, the faint orange glow from the fire was no longer present. She couldn’t hear its distant crackle and pop, either.

She could hear something else: voices coming from outside. They spoke in hushed tones, and she strained to listen. It sounded like men talking, but she didn’t recognize any of them.

“—supposed to happen today.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, that’s the word. Old Dull’s got a lot of faith in this Candle guy.”

“What’s so special about Sparrow, anyway?”

“The ones who’ve been here the longest—

“The ones who haven’t wasted away to nothing, you mean.”

“—right, them. They say Sparrow used to be one of us, but he found a way to escape. Dullington had plans for him, something different than the rest of us, and he’s been after him ever since.”

“How long?”

“Who knows. Years, probably.”

“Jesus.”

The names, however, she recognized. She’d heard Dullington and Sparrow whispered about in the dark, through the closed door, and she wondered how her husband was mixed up in their affairs. He lived a quiet life and never bothered anyone. How had he crossed paths with these people?

Donna closed her eyes and thought of Donovan. She feared for him, feared what might happen if he couldn’t do whatever was expected of him.

He’ll find his way
, she reminded herself,
he always does
. It was meager comfort, but she clung to it, ignoring the pangs of hunger in her belly and the sting of her bladder.

The thought kept her warm in the bitter dark. She cherished it.

It was all she had left.

•  •  •

The brothers waited for the crosswalk light to change. Across the street, a line of patrons stretched beyond the doors of Harrison & Main Booksellers and wound its way around the corner. Michael nudged Donovan and pointed toward the crowd.

“Do you think your book could sell this much?”

Donovan shot his brother a quick smirk. “No way. This self-help crap always sells more.”

“Sounds like you’re in the wrong business.”

“Maybe I am.” He observed another large group join the line from an adjacent street as traffic inched through the intersections. A breeze picked up around them, and the city’s colors shifted, losing depth and focus, allowing Donovan to see a different sort of crowd gathering outside the building. A few Yawning loitered in the middle of the street, towering over a churning sea of Cretins.

Looks like the whole fan club’s here.

They vanished and were replaced by two lanes of traffic. The traffic signal indicated it was safe to cross. Donovan took a breath, fixed his eyes on the bookstore, and made his way to the other side. Michael followed.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say to this guy?”

Donovan stopped at the opposite sidewalk and looked at the line. It ran the full length of the building. Michael grabbed his arm.

“Don? Did you hear me?”

“I did,” he said, “and I don’t know. It’s not every day I have to tell a man I’ve been sent to kidnap him, y’know?”

“Well, you’d better think on your feet. This thing’s supposed to start soon, and the line’s not getting any shorter.”

Michael was right. Donovan couldn’t see the end of the line, and he knew the bookstore was not very large. He looked to the entrance and smiled.

“I think I have an idea.”

He walked away from his brother, toward the front of the line. Michael called out to him.

“Well? Are you going to share?”

Donovan looked back. “Go get in line, Mike. I’ll see you inside.”

A force swelled within him as the invisible hand clutched at his stomach, pulling him out of the Spectrum. Michael watched his brother vanish, and shook his head.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. He went to the back of the line.

•  •  •

In the span of minutes since his last view of the Monochrome, Donovan saw there were even more of the pale horrors. The street appeared to squirm as though covered in a thick layer of white insects. The mass was punctuated by even more Yawning, staggering over their tiny counterparts. In that moment, caught between both realities, Donovan heard their chattering cacophony with frightening clarity.

They’re waiting
.

Ahead, two Yawning stood guard at the entrance. Donovan held his breath as he passed between them. The last time he was this close to one it had been trying to eat him, so he made a point of hurrying through the entryway. He positioned himself between the outlines of two figures, each with a Cretin on their shoulder. They looked up at him and grinned.

Donovan winced. The foyer sprang to life as he flickered back. He stood between two women, neither of which paid him any notice. They each held a copy of Sparrow’s book. Donovan scrutinized a promotional poster on the wall.

A
Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity
. The title bled pretension, printed in bold letters across a sketched outline of a light bulb, with Sparrow’s name aligned at the top. A blurb read, “A revolution in human progression.” Donovan doubted that was actually the case, but the turnout for the day’s event proved he was one of a small minority.

The line did not move for twenty minutes. Outside, police waved people through the intersections, the streets now at a standstill. Watching the urban chaos, Donovan thought,
I want this guy’s publicist.

He wondered what he would say to Dr. Sparrow. What
could
he say?
Hi, I’m Donovan Candle, and Aleister Dullington sent me to find you because, if I don’t, he’s going to kill my wife
. It was to the point, but sounded ridiculous in his head. He didn’t know if Sparrow would even see him.

Doubt you’d be invisible to him, hoss. He’s public enemy numero uno in Monochrome land.

His mind raced with possibilities—what might happen if Sparrow didn’t cooperate—but a push from behind displaced such thoughts. The line was moving. A woman bumped into him, confused, and her eyes glazed over when he tried to apologize. She squinted, straining to see him. Donovan shut his mouth and started walking.

He moved through the foyer, past a counter of cash registers, and worked his way through the crowd. Rows of bookshelves had been rearranged for the event, and in the center of the clearing was a lectern. A small group of chairs were claimed by those at the front of the line, leaving the rest to stand and fill out the store to its capacity. Donovan found a spot close to the lectern, just behind the last row of seats.

Then he saw the doctor, and his heart inched its way into his throat. His blood pressure spiked.

Dr. Albert Sparrow was a tall man. He wore a three-piece suit, colored gray to match silver hair pulled back into a ponytail. A thick mustache adorned his upper lip, accenting a grin which now spread across his face.

Sparrow swaggered to the lectern, taking the microphone in hand with the confidence of a rock star. The audience erupted with applause. Sparrow basked in it, listening to the cheers.

He leaned into the microphone and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Come again?” The crowd ate it up, cheering and whistling. Donovan inferred two things from the man at that point: he adored the attention, and he knew how to manipulate. Dullington’s interest in him was obvious.

Sparrow reached into his suit coat and pulled out a pair of glasses. As he did, a woman in a black dress walked to the lectern and whispered in his ear. He nodded, leaned in to the microphone and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me. I need your attention for a moment.” Sparrow’s voice boomed over the sound system. Most of the crowd’s cheers slowly died down. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it appears the store is at capacity. I’m afraid if we let anyone else in here, we’ll be in violation of the fire code.”

Donovan turned and saw the entrance doors were closed, an angry mob of readers peering inside. A scan of those who got through revealed Michael was not among them.

Looks like I’m on my own
, he thought.

“I’d like to welcome you, and to thank you for coming out and joining me today. As most of you probably know, my name is Dr. Albert Sparrow.”

More cheers came from the audience. Donovan remained unimpressed. He hoped that if he ever made it as an author, he wouldn’t be as pompous as this man. Sparrow’s smile was that of a man full of himself; worse, it was the smile of a man at the height of power, one who knew he could say whatever he wanted and these people would still cheer for him.