A Life Transparent (17 page)

“First, I will read from our favorite book for thirty minutes, after which I’ll take a few questions. Then we’ll move on to the signing. And if you didn’t bring your copy, don’t worry—the store has plenty in stock.”

Sparrow held up a hardcover copy of the book. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat once more, and opened to a bookmarked page.

The gray sight overcame Donovan, and he witnessed something that left him dumbstruck. While the rest of the store shifted into varying shades of gray, the good doctor remained in full clarity, standing like a Technicolor beacon in a silent film. All around him, Cretins cringed as he spoke. His voice was garbled in the droning language of the Monochrome.

Hints of the Spectrum bled through the gray haze, and Sparrow’s voice became clear as Donovan’s gray sight relented.

“‘—apter one: The Disease. There are two sides to every coin: light and dark, day and night, good and evil if one is inclined to take it that far. As human beings, we restrict ourselves to one side at a time. We wake up in the morning, we have breakfast, we kiss our spouses goodbye and we travel off to work. Then, at the end of the day, we come home, we have dinner, we relax, we sleep. Over the course of time, however, the human mind begins to fit this self-imposed mold—an act which it is not meant to perform, as this routine causes a state of banal atrophy.

“‘Unfortunately this is a common side-effect of the nine-to-five grind. The human existence isn’t meant to be confined to a box, a computer screen, a telephone, or any other device for a large amount of time. We begin to lose touch with reality, with our loved-ones, with our own lives. Mediocrity is a disease of our society, and unlike diseases of the natural world, this one is entirely man-made. Affliction is a choice.

“‘Over the course of this study, three distinct ‘life’ dichotomies will be discussed in further detail, but for the purposes of this introduction, each will be broached so as to set the proverbial stage.’”

Sparrow paused, turning the page. Someone behind Donovan coughed. The rest of the audience was silent, hanging on the doctor’s every word.

“‘A life ordinary is the setting in which most of us live our lives. It is not aware of the layers underneath or above; rather, it is merely aware of itself and its own formulaic devices. A life ordinary plots itself from point A to B to C and beyond, until it reaches a point at which the obvious choice is to return to A, and so the poisonous cycle repeats until death. Over the course of this life, offspring are taught to live the same lifestyle, propagating yet another ordinary, banal existence.

“‘However, there are grave consequences for some of those who choose to follow this bleak path to its destination.’”

Donovan listened, understanding creeping into his mind. He could see the road Sparrow was traveling, and it looked very familiar.

“‘Some of us bury ourselves in our jobs, becoming machines of a sort, built with only one purpose—to do more work. Others may devote their lives to one thing, shutting out all of life’s delights and interesting quirks. Some choose to convolute the very essence of humanity by saturating themselves with mediocrity. At this point, a life ordinary deteriorates into a life transparent.

“‘A life transparent is a life in flux and transition. It is a liminal state, fraught with confusion and despair, attributed to a constant feeling of ennui. Most times, however, when one enters this stage it is too late for recourse. A person living a life transparent stands upon the threshold of decision: to vanish into obscurity, continuing on their self-destructive journey into a monochromatic version of the world devoid of life and warmth, ignored by those around them; alternatively, a person living a life transparent may take a road less traveled, if they recognize the symptoms early on.

“‘A drastic change in lifestyle is necessary. This requires identifying the source of mediocrity and expelling it from daily life. It could mean changing one’s job, finding a new hobby, or eliminating any other malignant preoccupation. Only then can one find the means with which to breach the veil and reenter the world’s spectrum. It is through this ‘life pitch,’ so to speak, that one may leap from the precipice of virtual anonymity, transcending through a subset of dichotomies—hesitation, penitence, liminality, definition—and land safely in the shoes of a life random.’”

Dr. Sparrow looked up for a moment, adjusting his glasses, and he locked eyes with Donovan. Sparrow’s face reddened. Donovan might as well have been the only person in the room. He felt exposed. The doctor’s sharp glare left little room for denial: he could see Donovan just fine.

•  •  •

The man in the crowd caught Sparrow off guard, threw him off his game. He always prepared for the worst, expecting that Dullington might send an army to any one of the stops on his publicity tour, but until that moment he’d not yet encountered them. There were others, of course, but they always came before or after his public appearances, turning up in airport bars or at restaurants, trying to pass themselves off as fans.

Sparrow could easily spot them. There was always the tell-tale signs of dirt under the nails, hair that hadn’t been washed in weeks or months, a foul stench. Lately, Dullington had taken to giving them the means to disguise themselves—even the whore had dressed her part—but this man in the crowd was different.

He didn’t look like one of Dullington’s puppets. At a glance, he looked like a normal fellow, but the longer Sparrow stared, the more he recognized the quiet desperation in the man’s eyes. More importantly, the man noticed Sparrow could see him.

For a moment, Sparrow faltered at the lectern. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and the gun holstered inside his coat pulled at him. Paranoia swept over him in a heated wave.

He felt the room shift around him, felt the wrenching pull in his torso. It was a cold reminder of what awaited him if he let it catch up.
I won’t go back
, he thought.
Never
. He locked eyes once more with the man in the audience, trying his best to transmit a warning across the space between them.

Do not fuck with me.

Sparrow returned to the book, and read to the end of the chapter.

•  •  •

The audience applauded as Dr. Sparrow finished the reading. Donovan had observed a change in the doctor’s demeanor since they locked eyes: he was less boisterous than when he’d first approached the lectern, and when the crowd saw fit to give him a standing ovation, he had merely thanked them.

A moment later he excused himself, motioning to the woman in the black dress. She took his place at the microphone.

“It will be just a few minutes before we conclude with the Q&A.”

Donovan kept his eye on Sparrow. The old man walked along the back wall toward a short hallway. A sign hung above the opening that read “Restrooms.”

Better now than never
, he thought. Donovan pushed his way through the crowd, circumventing the lectern and following after his target. He jogged through a maze of bookshelves, past a group of store clerks, and into the hall. Entrances to both restrooms stood opposite one another. A third door, labeled “Employees Only,” stood at the end of the hall.

The door to the men’s room swung to a close. Donovan pushed it open and stepped inside. Dr. Albert Sparrow ran water in the sink. He let it pool in his hands before wiping down his face and forehead. He looked sallow under the fluorescent lights. They aged him twenty years.

He dabbed his face with a handkerchief, pausing long enough to regard Donovan in the mirror.

“Can I help you?”

Donovan blinked, searching for the right words.

“Aleister Dullington sent me.”

“Of course he did.” Sparrow looked down at the sink, then into the mirror. He smiled, shaking his head. “This will never end, will it?”

Donovan wasn’t sure what to say. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with the situation. Dr. Sparrow now appeared old, feeble, far from the smug bastard he’d made himself out to be.

“I’m so tired of this.” He looked up at Donovan and put on his glasses. “Would you mind accompanying an old man to his car? I need my medication. This old heart isn’t what it used to be.”

Donovan agreed, following the doctor out into the hallway. They turned left through the Employees Only area, passing a small lounge and entering a loading zone filled with boxes of books. Donovan paid little attention to anything but the old man, the way his silver ponytail swished back and forth as he walked. He feared that if he took his eyes off the man, Sparrow would disappear.

They exited the building at the far side, stepping out into a wide alley. There was a silver BMW parked alongside the loading dock, marked with out-of-state plates and flagged with a rental company’s logo. Donovan wasn’t surprised by the car’s elegance; it was just what he imagined a man like Sparrow might drive.

“Dr. Sparrow,” Donovan began, “listen. I need to—”

“Please, son. Spare me. I’m sure whatever story he’s given you to justify your actions helps you sleep at night, but it won’t work with me. Just let me have my medicine before you do what it is you’ve come to do.”

“You know why I’m here?”

Dr. Sparrow reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He disengaged the lock, prompting the car to chirp in agreement, and walked around to the passenger side door. Donovan stopped at the trunk. He wanted to plead with the man, explain the situation. Together, maybe they could find some sort of solution. Something that would work in their favor.

“Been after me for years,” Sparrow mumbled. The old man turned, looking first to the alley’s entrance, then back at its exit. “I’ve learned a thing or two along the way.”

Donovan said nothing. He approached the side of the car. “Look, Dr. Sparrow, this is about my w—”

Donovan Candle suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

At first Donovan wasn’t sure what to do or say. Even after facing George Guffin and narrowly escaping the Yawning, he still found it difficult to suppress his bladder at the sight of a gun pointed at his face.

“I’ve learned not to trust a single fucking thing any of you rubes say. I don’t care why you’re here, or what he’s promised you in return—I’m not going back, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep it that way.” Sparrow pressed the barrel harder against Donovan’s skull. “Do you understand
that
, son?” His elderly demeanor was gone, and Donovan realized it had all been a ruse. “I’m going to remove you from this equation just like the rest of them, and—”

“Put it down, old man.”

Sparrow’s eyes widened at the sound of a cocked hammer. Michael Candle pressed the revolver into the back of Sparrow’s silver mane.

Donovan’s legs nearly gave out as the adrenaline slowed. “Mike, thank God.”

“I said put it down.”

Sparrow looked ahead, his eyes possessed with hatred more vicious than Donovan had ever seen. It made his cheeks burn. He almost wanted to apologize to the man, but the look in Sparrow’s eyes made him hold his tongue.

The old man licked his lips and spoke evenly through clenched teeth. “Well played.” He lowered the gun. Michael reached over, took it from Sparrow, and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

“Got anything else up your sleeve, old man?”

“No,” Sparrow said, “I don’t.”

“Then you won’t mind if I pat you down.” Michael was quick about it. He came up empty handed. “Get in the car.”

Sparrow’s eyes darkened. He did not look back at Michael, but forward, glaring into Donovan’s eyes.“I didn’t catch your name, son.”

“My name is Donovan Candle.”

A thin smile cut across Sparrow’s face. “Mr. Candle,” he said, “I’m going to remember you.”

Likewise
, Donovan thought. Michael opened the door and shoved the doctor inside. He looked up at his brother.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Donovan said. He looked at Michael’s revolver. “Do you normally do this?”

Michael flashed a smile. “Do what, break the law? Only when my brother and his wife are in danger.” He leaned into the car and held out his hand. “Keys.”

Dr. Sparrow tossed the keys outside. He spat. “Fuck you.”

Michael slammed the door and picked the keys off the ground. He said, “Get in. I’m driving.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here. Now get in before someone sees us.”

•  •  •

Michael Candle, you are one crazy son of a bitch
. The words repeated in the detective’s head as he guided the car out of the alley and into traffic. Everything caught up to him in those moments, the sequence of events replaying in a constant blur behind his eyes, and he realized the gravity of what they’d done.

More words played like a litany through his skull: armed kidnapping, hostage-taking.

He looked in the rearview mirror at Dr. Sparrow. The old man glared at Michael’s reflection, his cheeks stained a dark shade of red. His face looked like a giant bruise.

What are you doing?
Michael asked himself. He turned his attention back to the road, struggling against the urge to turn the car around or sucker-punch his brother for dragging him into this mess.
Take the old man back to the bookstore. Drop him off. Apologize for the bad prank, and get the hell out of there.

Despite what he’d witnessed since the previous night, with his brother’s inexplicable vanishing acts and the conversation with the weirdo on the phone, he still resisted belief. It was something he’d built up over the years, a requirement for logic that ran deep in his veins, and it was hard to shake. This logic told him they
would
be caught, and they
would
go to jail.

However, there was more to all this than he understood, and this depth undermined his rationale, stirring something within him. It was a fear that there
was
something greater at stake, something deeply rooted in the world which they took for granted. It was something he was sure he would never fully understand. Whatever
it
was made him set aside his fear of breaking the law.