A Life Transparent

by Todd Keisling

  Her words made Donna’s heart race, and she tried to ignore the stench of Alice’s breath. You scream. Not all of us are good.

  Alice stood up and backed out of the room. She put a finger to her lips as she closed the door. Darkness filled the enclosure, punctuated by a sliver of flickering light that seeped through a crack beneath the door. Voices came from beyond her prison, but she couldn’t make them out. As before, she was alone with nothing but her own thoughts.

  She winced as she forced herself onto her side, wiggling her fingers and toes to keep the blood flowing. Her head still ached from the blow. She feared she might have a concussion, but tried to keep her mind off the pain. It wasn’t easy.

  Donna thought of her husband, trying to picture his face and wondering where he was at the moment. He’d said he was at their place in the park. It made little sense as to why he was there, but given all that had happened, not much else made sense, either. There was someone else with him, though she did not hear his voice. She’d heard the others outside her cell mention a name—Dullington—and the fear in their voices told her one thing: he was the one behind all this. They feared him, and it was so great a fear that they did whatever he told them to.

  Who he was, and why he was doing all of this, was beyond her. She could think of nothing she and Donovan had done to offend anyone. They weren’t rich, so that left out ransom as a motive. What, then? Donna sighed, thinking back to the phone call. Donovan seemed rushed, distracted by something else. And he sounded so far away.

  She tried not to think about that. Hearing his voice in this murky place was dream-like. It was the last thing she expected would happen, but when she saw the phone in Alice’s hand, her heart leapt up with the hope that it would be her love on the other side. There was something in his voice, though. It was something that had been there for the past week, something she couldn’t put her finger on.

  “Distant” came to mind, and she realized that was a perfect way to describe his behavior. There were times when she felt he wasn’t there at all, as if he was just a ghost haunting their home as she went about her day. Sometimes she’d hear him speak, only to look up and find she was alone in the room. And the headaches—God, the headaches were unbearable.

  It was stress. Had to be. Donovan’s stress became her stress, and that gave her the migraines. And his stress was that job. Always, that job. She knew it wasn’t good for him. He was meant for something more than that, but—

  His voice spoke up in her head before she could finish the thought: But we needed the money. That disturbed her. Fresh out of college, they had their share of debts. He’d graduated a year ahead of her; she, in the midst of finding her way, opted to take a year away from collegiate life in order to figure out what she wanted to do. “The real world” stepped in, and chose for her.

  With the economy in piss-poor shape, Donovan had few opportunities for steady employment. It was either fast food or Identinel. There weren’t many jobs available for a liberal arts major. He’d applied to Identinel under the pretense that it would be a stepping stone to something better. She’d taken various part-time jobs, but in the end, responsibility fell to her husband to bring home the bread.

  Things got better over the years—they were certainly better off now—and she found that she loved and respected him even more with each passing day. But there was still that job.

  Donna twiddled her fingers to keep the blood flowing. Ghostly pins prickled her fingertips.

  Identinel turned out to be just as she’d feared. It was fine those first few years, but as they started to pile on more responsibilities, Donovan grew more and more detached. He allowed them to mold him into what they wanted him to be: a company man.

  She dry-swallowed and listened to her throat click. Identinel consumed him. They led him along with a carrot on a string, promising more and more, but in the end it never amounted to as much as they took away. He was stuck there, she realized, and the company knew it.

  Donna realized she had to pee. She wanted to call out, tell them she had to go to the bathroom, but remembered her promise to Alice. The thought of duct tape wrapped around her mouth didn’t seem pleasant.

  She squeezed her thighs together to hold back the sudden ache in her bladder.

  He’ll come, she thought. He’ll get us out of this mess. And when he did, she’d embrace him, shower him with kisses, make love to him until exhaustion overtook them both. She wanted so badly to apologize for their argument Monday night. She feared that, somehow, it was the start of all this. Everything seemed fine before then.

  That’s not true, spoke her conscience. It was just the last straw. Things weren’t fine. You weren’t happy.

  It was true. She was unhappy—not with him, but with the way his job had ruined his life. She saw him slaving over his writing, watched him put it off to work overtime at the office. In college, he lived for his writing. He had big dreams. He wanted to be the next Raymond Chandler. Observing him slowly walk away from that dream, when it had defined him for years beforehand, depressed her. She wanted the best for her husband, and she wanted him to be happy.

  Identinel had afforded them a means to live, but not much else. If they came out of this in one piece, she would make him quit that horrid job.

  But what about the baby? she heard him ask. If they wanted a baby, they had to save and save and save—

  What about living? she wondered. They’d barely lived their own lives—what made them think they could foster another life into being?

  Stop it. Just stop it. Keep it together, or there will be no baby.

  Donna blinked away tears.

  You’ll see him again. He’s going to figure this out. He always finds a way.

  The ache in her bladder prompted a round of shivers. She tried to squeeze her legs tighter, but in the end, she gave up the fight. Warm urine gushed, then trickled between her legs, soaking her clothes, and forming a puddle around her waist. The heat of shame overcame her, and she reminded herself that it didn’t matter anymore.

  She shivered, yearning for freedom from her dark prison. Her head swam, and she closed her eyes, eager to be rid of the chills and the frustration and the loss. Before she found sleep, Donna had one silent, troubling thought:

  Oh Don, where are you?

  • • •

  “Was that good for you?”

  She rolled off him, perching herself on the edge of the bed in a single, fluid motion. He was impressed, but figured she’d had plenty of opportunities to perfect her craft. Maybe, he thought, or maybe she’s just a good actress.

  Albert Sparrow sat up against the headboard. He reached over and flipped on the hotel lamp.

  “It certainly was.”

  The prostitute looked over her shoulder. The way her black hair spilled down her naked back roused his interest. Maybe he’d have another go with her before sending her on her way.

  Her coquettish smile was infectious. He leered at her, grinning ear to ear. He was old enough to be her father.

  “So, my dear—” He climbed out of bed and walked across the suite. He put on a white robe.

  “—how, exactly, does one become a woman of your profession?”

  She looked away, embarrassed.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Drink?” Sparrow gestured to the mini-bar.

  The woman—he thought her name was Lindsay—offered a sheepish smile and nodded. Sparrow smiled again. He opened the door, plucked two single-serving bottles of whiskey from the top shelf, and poured them into a pair of tumblers.

  She grinned when he handed her the glass, and drank its contents in one gulp. “Thanks, mister—”

  “Doctor.”

  “Oh.” Lindsay—or was it Linda?—brushed the hair from her eyes. Sparrow pulled his own silvery hair back into a ponytail. “What sort of doctor?”

  “The scholarly kind. Philosophiae doctor.” He made a theatrical bow. “Dr. Albert Sparrow, at your service.”

  “Wow. Aren’t you the author of that book
—” She snapped her fingers, searching for the title. “A Life—something.”

  “A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity.”

  “That’s the one!” she giggled. “I heard you on the radio.”

  “Indeed.”

  He strolled over to the dresser and slowly opened the top drawer. He saw what he was looking for, smiled, and put his hand on it.

  “Tell me, Lindsay—”

  “Lanna.”

  “Apologies, Lanna. What did you want to do in life? Surely this wasn’t it.”

  Her face darkened, cheeks flushing a deep red. Lanna looked toward the window with its drawn curtains, then back toward the door. Sparrow stood between her and the exit.

  “Lanna?”

  “Huh? Oh—a dancer. I wanted to be a dancer, but—I dropped out of school because I needed the money, yeah, and then I fell on bad times, my mother got sick and I had to help her out, so—”

  Sparrow let his smile fall. He stared hard at the woman, right in the eye, so she would know he knew.

  “—I think I should be going.” Lanna lunged for her purse. Sparrow lifted the gun from the drawer, pointed it at her pretty face. She froze in mid-step.

  “The first thing I learned about lying was to keep it simple. Never embellish more than you have to.” He motioned to the bed. “Have a seat. You’re going to tell me everything.”

  Lanna glanced back at her purse. It didn’t match her thousand-dollar price tag. It was stained, dirty, like she’d found it at the bottom of a dumpster. Sparrow closed the gap between them and pressed the gun barrel against her forehead.

  “Sit down.”

  She did as he bade her. Sparrow took a step back, lowered his weapon, and looked over at her handbag. He went through its contents: a revolver, a couple of spare bullets, a pack of smokes, a lighter, and a photograph. Sparrow smirked, held up the photo and showed it to her.

  “Do you think the photographer got my best side?” Lanna turned away, her head down like a scolded child. Sparrow looked at the photo. “I still can’t believe they picked this one for the book jacket. Such a shame.” He shook his head.

  “Look, mister—”

  “Doctor.”

  “Dr. Sparrow—we don’t have to do this. He just wanted me to find you, and—”

  He lifted the handgun from her purse. “Coerce me? Allow me a moment, dear, and tell you what I know. I know you aren’t the first. I know you won’t be the last. He’s had Missing just like you on my trail since the day I escaped, and I’ve got news for you, missy—”

  Sparrow thrust himself upon her. She tried to scream, but he was too fast for her. His hands found her throat. Lanna slapped his head, his shoulders, trying to beat him back, but Sparrow would not be denied his freedom. He dug his fingers into her flesh, grimacing like a rabid dog as he watched the life drain from her eyes.

  “I’m not going back. Not for him, never in a million—fucking—years—and certainly not because of a pretend-whore like you.”

  Spittle flew from his lips, splattering against her cheek, but Lanna did not notice. She stared up at him, her eyes affixed to his. He heard her last breath leave her, a hushed, death-whimper that almost made him feel pity.

  Almost.

  He gave her throat one more squeeze to be sure. She did not move.

  Dr. Sparrow climbed off her body, wiped the sweat from his forehead and spittle from his chin. He stepped away from the bed. The room flickered for a moment, as did Lanna’s body.

  “Take her back,” he whispered. “Go on, take her back. Get rid of the evidence for me.”

  He’d seen it happen many times before. The first time he witnessed it, it scared the hell out of him. That was years ago, and it got much easier each time.

  Lanna’s body dimmed, flickered, and vanished from the bed. An imprint of her body remained in the sheets. Once a part of the Monochrome, always a part of the Monochrome. Dullington didn’t let go unless he chose to.

  Sparrow opened the mini-bar and took out a tiny bottle of vodka. He unscrewed the cap and drank it in one gulp.

  Dullington would never let go of him. Never. His plans for Sparrow were too grand, too selfish to abandon. The vodka burned all the way down his throat, setting fire to his stomach. He grimaced, waiting for it to go to his head.

  He spent the night on the floor, his feet facing the wall. He’d slept in the bed for two nights in a row. A third time might establish a routine, and he could not be too cautious. It was this caution which kept him out of the gray world, away from Dullington’s reach. So far it worked, but he had to remain on his toes. He had to be ready. The whore was obvious, singling him out at the bar, her advances too strong. He’d had his share of whores, and Lanna wasn’t one of them.

  Nice try, Al. You’ll have to try harder.

  An image of Aleister Dullington sprang to mind. It prompted a chill that lingered in his old bones for hours. Dr. Albert Sparrow curled up in the coarse blankets, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep away waking memories of his years lost in the gray maze.

  They were nightmares on tiny, white legs, and they followed him down into the depths of sleep.

  • 8 •

  CANDLES

  The storm let up as Donovan neared his brother’s neighborhood. Remnants of thunder boomed in the distance, but the rain fell elsewhere, and he was grateful for its passing.

  The flickering lingered after leaving the Monochrome. He hoped it would stop, as he’d found more excitement in the last several hours than he’d had in his whole life, but it did not relent. He felt its invisible hand pull at his stomach while the world around him slowly lost its color.

  When it did, he saw dozens of Yawning standing along the sidewalks and streets. He passed through several of them, feeling a chill as he did.

  Donovan tried to put the abominations out of his mind and focus on the task at hand instead. He wondered if Michael was even home. He’d tried calling again after returning to the car, but the call went straight to Michael’s voicemail. Donovan knew his brother turned off his phone, especially on Friday evenings; however, he also knew Michael had to come home sometime, and decided he would wait his brother out.

  When Donovan turned onto Michael’s street, he was relieved to see he wouldn’t be reduced to shivering on the curb. Lights glowed warmly from the windows of Michael’s house, an expense Donovan knew his frugal brother wouldn’t undertake unless he were home. Donovan parked along the curb and sat for a minute.

  What if he doesn’t believe me?

  He looked down at the gun on the passenger seat. Could he put a gun to his own brother’s head and force him to help? Joe Hopper’s reassuring drawl piped up in his head: Won’t come to that, hoss.

  They spoke different languages, he and Michael, but Donovan had learned to adapt over the years. Michael Candle might not buy into the more sensational aspects of Donovan’s story, but he would respond to Donna’s abduction.

  Donovan took the gun and got out of the car just as a strong gale swept down the center of the street. Thunder hammered farther out over the city. He shoved the gun in his jacket pocket and hurried up the sidewalk.

  Donovan was calmed by the shifting, multi-colored glow of the television through the window. He hesitated for a moment, but remembered Dullington’s words: My cretins will not inhibit your progress.

  He pressed the doorbell, waiting a full minute for the door to finally swing open. Michael Candle stood before him in a green bathrobe sporting several days’ growth of facial hair, clutching a bottle of beer in one hand.

  “Don? What—”

  But Donovan’s mouth was dry, and words he’d imagined saying to his brother faltered on his tongue. His legs turned to jelly, and he all but collapsed at Michael’s feet. The sobs came in long, whiny gusts. Michael stood over him, shocked, unsure of what to do or say. Finally he knelt and put a hand on Donovan’s shoulder.

  “Talk to me, man. I tried to call, but I couldn’t get through on either line. What’
s going on?”

  After a few seconds, Donovan collected himself, and looked up in his older brother’s eyes. His jaw quivered.

  “I need your help.”

  • • •

  “Drink this.” Michael handed him a tumbler of whiskey. “It’ll warm you up.”

  Donovan sipped the drink, feeling its slow burn all the way down to his belly. Michael perched on the edge of his recliner, leaned forward, and picked up Guffin’s weapon from the coffee table. He ejected the magazine and examined it.

  He grunted. “No registration number. You realize how much trouble you’d be in if you were caught with this?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Donovan said. “No one can see me, anyway”

  Michael returned the gun and stared at him. Donovan put down his drink.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  “Fine.”

  Donovan told his story, starting with Monday’s argument and finishing with his drive from the parking garage. Michael sat back, swallowed by the armchair’s upholstery, and gave his brother a hard look.

  “You ... do understand how insane all of this sounds, right?”

  Donovan nodded. He understood all too well. A shiver ripped its way through him, and he took another sip of the whiskey, relishing its fire on his tongue.

  “I know how it sounds,” he said, “but if you go to my house, you’ll find that my wife is not there. The kitchen is a disaster. And Mr. Precious Paws—” He paused, recalling the cat’s frightened, lifeless eyes. He took another drink. “My cat’s dead.”

  “And you didn’t call the cops?”

  “No, I didn’t call the cops. What the hell would I say to them? Honestly, Mike, if I called the damn cops, do you think they’d be hot on the case?” He waited. Michael didn’t answer. “Exactly. I’d be sitting at the station, regurgitating my story over and over while they decide whether or not I’m out of my fucking mind.”