A Life Transparent (8 page)

He looked at the knives again. The mental scenario played on in the back of his head. He pictured a person in a black ski mask lurking in their bedroom closet. Donna was on the bed, bound, and gagged. Seeing her there in such a state, he would rush in with his guard down, and then—

He swallowed, and his throat clicked. His heart beat with such force that his whole body shook. Donovan blinked. He knelt, plucking a steak knife from the floor, and followed signs of the struggle into the dining room.

Donovan froze. Blood dotted the table cloth. He moved along the edge of the table, whispering a silent prayer that it didn’t belong to his wife. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult.

He saw Mr. Precious Paws on the other side of the table, and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees and found that he could not blink. The first thing that came to mind was a simple, absurd thought:
So that’s what happened to the knives.

Mr. Precious Paws lay sprawled on the floor, the largest of Donna’s butcher knives buried in his back. Another jutted out the back of the cat’s neck, indicated by a stream of arterial spray that hit the opposing wall and formed a dark trail leading back to the dead animal. Mr. Precious Paws’ eyes were dilated, affixed on a point in space beyond the room. He looked terrified.

Donovan bit his lower lip and grimaced at the taste of bile at the back of his throat. His efforts couldn’t last, and he retched.

“Mr. Precious Paws,” he whimpered. The reality of the situation struck him. “Oh God, Donna!”

Blinded by panic, Donovan dropped the knife as he scrambled out of the room and up the stairs. He called out to his wife as he ran, his heart exploding in his chest. He threw open the bedroom door, ignorant of the scenario concocted by his imagination. She wasn’t on the bed, nor was there a masked man waiting to ambush him.

“
Donna!
” He screamed until his throat burned, the words scratching their way out of him like a frightened animal. The bathroom was empty, as were the office and spare bedroom at the end of the hall.
Donna
, his mind raced.
Donna, Donna, Donna
. Spots of black and purple blossomed across his field of vision, and he teetered on his feet.

When the splotches of color dimmed, Donovan found himself filled with a new urgency. The cops. He had to call the cops. On his way into the office, he realized he’d trampled right through the crime scene.
They’ll get over it, hoss.
Hopper’s words cooled him. He sucked in his breath and reached for the phone—when it rang.

It startled him. He looked at the black cordless as though he’d never seen it before, its screen lighting up to say UNKNOWN CALLER. Donovan pressed TALK. He lifted it to his ear and tried to speak, but his quivering jaw did not make it easy. The tears were already streaming down his face.

“H-Hello?”

A hiss of electronic noise filled his ears, and the drone took shape as a man’s voice.

“Hello, Mr. Candle.”

He recognized the soft-spoken voice. Realization spread through him in the form of a chill. The hairs on his arms and neck stood at attention. He shook so badly that he almost dropped the phone.
How?
he wondered.
How could that man get my number?
He had to hang up and call the police. He didn’t have time for this, he had to—

“Are you with me, Mr. Candle?”

Donovan dry-swallowed. “I’m here.”

“Good.” The nameless man chuckled. “How is
this
for interesting, Mr. Candle?”

For an instant, the man’s reference was lost on him, but it all came racing back to Donovan in a heated reverie:
I guess if something interesting doesn’t happen to me soon, I may disappear for good.

Everything clicked. An icy feeling settled in the bottom of his gut.

More electronic noise filled the line. When it subsided, the man was chuckling again. It made Donovan’s heart stop.

The unknown caller’s voice changed, imbued with the white noise of the line.

“Is this interesting enough for you?”

Donovan gaped into the phone. Words failed him.

“Well, Mr. Candle?”

The stark, electronic buzz rose up again, accenting the man’s words. Donovan gripped the phone while thoughts raced laps around his head.

“Who the hell are you?” he rasped.

“There will be time for introductions later, Mr. Candle. Please answer my question.”

Donna
, he thought.
Oh God, Donna, what has he done to you?
A thick cloud of heat surrounded his face. Donovan’s knees buckled, and he sank into his office chair.

“Mr. Candle.”

“What question? Look, I—”

“Is this interesting enough for you?”

He swallowed air. The lump tightened in his throat. “Yes.”

“Good.” The soft-spoken man seemed pleased. His tone lightened, now almost jovial. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Aleister Dullington.”

Donovan closed his eyes. “Mr. Dullington, did you take my wife? Did you hurt her?”

“Do not despair, Mr. Candle. I assure you that your wife is quite safe—for now.”

For now
. The bottom dropped out of Donovan’s gut.
Keep it together, hoss.

“Where is she?”

“In due time.”

Donovan shot out of his seat. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“You tell me where she is, you son of a bitch. You tell me
now
.”

“Now, now, Mr. Candle. It is not wise to curse the one who determines whether your precious Donna lives or dies.”

The sudden rush of adrenaline left him. He felt weak, feeble. He sank back into his chair and closed his eyes.
Whether your precious Donna lives or dies.
The words tumbled and spun in his head, bouncing off images of the kitchen and dead cat.
He’s hurt her, oh God, he’s hurt her or he’s
going
to hurt her, or—

“Calm yourself, Mr. Candle. What I have to tell you will be most displeasing.”

Sweat dotted his forehead. The air in the room was suddenly very suffocating. Donovan took it all in with one prolonged breath. He held it in his chest, letting it burn through his lungs, before slowly exhaling. His heart calmed.

“I’m listening.”

“You are a boring man, Mr. Candle.”

“Boring?” he snorted. His wife was missing, and this guy on the line had the gall to
criticize
him? “Where is Donna? I want to talk to her right
now
—”

“I ask for your patience, Mr. Candle.” Aleister Dullington remained calm, his voice reflecting no emotion. He spoke in measured syllables, with a flat intensity which ran beneath every vowel and consonant. “Do not push me.
Or else.
”

Donovan shut his mouth. He tried to ignore the thoughts racing through his head, and took another deep breath. He held it inside longer than the last one.

“You are boring. You have spent the last nine years of your life in a job that stifles you. You slave toward empty goals making empty promises to yourself and your wife.”

“Mister, I don’t need your insults.”

“These are not insults, Mr. Candle, these are truths. If you find them insulting, I implore you to consider why that might be.”

Donovan choked back a bitter reply.

“The transparency afflicting you is what I refer to as the ‘flickering.’ It is the result of your supersaturation with mediocrity.”

“What?” The exasperation in his own voice startled him. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this bullsh—”

“Mr. Candle, if you interrupt me again, I will see to it that your wife’s non-vital organs are separated from her body.” His voice darkened, tinged with electronic resonance that made the phone hiss. “We will start with her ovaries.”

Donovan fought back tears. His mounting frustration broke and withered under the man’s threat.

“Do I have your undivided attention now, Mr. Candle?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Your life is saturated with mediocrity. As a result, you are flickering out. You are experiencing odd things, seeing things that should not be, your vision reduced to shades of gray.”

“Yeah.”

“Indeed. You are seeing the world behind the world, a place I call the Monochrome. This is where you will end up, should you fail to cure your banality.”

His head spun. The strange man’s words tumbled through his mind as he tried to process everything. Monochrome? A world behind the world? The words sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud, and Donovan would have discounted them as the ramblings of a mad man had he not experienced things exactly as Dullington described them.

But there was something else, something far worse than his own absurd affliction. Donna was gone, and Dullington was behind it. That was all Donovan needed to make him forget himself. It was all about Donna now, flickering be damned.

“Are you still with me, Mr. Candle?”

“I am.”

“You may speak. I am eager to hear your response.” Aleister Dullington’s voice was cold, proper. Professional.

“What have you done with my wife?” The words numbed his lips.

“Mrs. Candle is well.”

“Answer my question.” His temper rose, but he tried his best to keep it under control. To ignite Dullington’s own fuse, which he suspected was quite short, would be a grave error—not just for Donna, but for himself.

“Your ire is encouraging.” The upward pitch in Dullington’s voice gave Donovan the image of a smile on an otherwise expressionless face. He couldn’t fathom how someone could smile in such a situation, but then again, this man hardly seemed normal.

“I like a good show, Mr. Candle, and you seem like a man with the potential to deliver. For this reason alone, I offer you an opportunity to redeem yourself.” He paused. Static filled the line for a moment, then subsided. “Forgive me. You asked a question, and I will answer. Your wife is bound ankle and wrist. A bag covers her head. Before you ask, Mr. Candle, no. No one has had their way with her—yet.”

Donovan clenched his teeth at that last detail. Thinking of Donna in such a predicament made his helplessness in the matter even more unbearable. He pictured her smiling face instead.

“Go on,” he said.

“As to where she is, I am afraid I cannot tell you right now. All you need to know is that she is safe, and as comfortable as her situation allows.”

“Why are you doing this to her?” His throat clicked when he swallowed, and he fought against the nausea stirring in his stomach.

Dullington went on, ignoring Donovan’s question. “I am a reaper of boredom, Mr. Candle, I feed on it. It is my sustenance, and the Monochrome—the world behind your world—is
my
realm. The flickering brings you here.”

Donovan thought of the visions, the white creatures lurking in the gray haze. Was this what he had to look forward to? Was this “Monochrome” his final destination?
This is crazy
, he thought.
Absolute lunacy.

“The irony,” Dullington said, “is that this diet of boredom grows tedious.” The connection swelled with wheezing, digitized static. “I yearn for the entertainment you take for granted.”

Donovan hesitated, “You’re ... bored with boredom?”

“Precisely. I knew you were bright, which is why I offer you a second chance. If you do not change your predicament, Mr. Candle, you will flicker out. Most people will not miss you. Some will, but only after it is too late. However, I am willing to offer you a task. Complete it, and earn yourself a second chance.”

“What task?” Donovan swallowed. His throat was suddenly very dry, scratchy.

“I have lost someone very important to me. Find him, return him, and I will return Mrs. Candle to you. In the process, your exploits entertain me. It is a win-win situation, so to speak. Agreed?”

“But—” he began, then paused. He considered hanging up the phone and dialing 911, but what would he say? And what could the police do? He feared that doing so would result in repercussions for Donna. He felt trapped. This stranger had complete authority over the situation, over his life, and over Donna’s. The ball was in Dullington’s court, and Donovan would have to play by his rules—however preposterous—or forfeit.

“Time is running out, Mr. Candle, I must be going. But I will tell you one thing: the man who kidnapped your wife is at a diner called Rossetti’s.”

Donovan’s heart sank, and he once again fought the urge to vomit. The taste of bile filled his mouth, and his stomach burned. Rossetti’s, where he and Donna had their first date. He felt a deep hatred for the man on the phone. Though he’d never considered himself a violent person, he wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers around Dullington’s throat and squeeze.

“His name is George Guffin, and he is waiting for you there. I have instructed him to guide you onward. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—” Donovan began, cut off by a low, pulsing drone of noise that surged through the line. It sounded like heavy, digital breathing. “—but who
are
you?”

The drone went on. Through it, Dullington spoke. “Who are
you
, Mr. Candle?”

He wasn’t sure how to respond. The question probed far deeper than he cared to explore at the moment. There were more pressing matters at hand.

“You do not have to answer now, Mr. Candle, but you will before this is over.”

There was a crush of static, then the deafening silence of a disconnect. In the solitude of his office, Donovan Candle hung up the phone, buried his face in his hands, and cried.

•  •  •

His mind shut down, and for an indeterminable span of time Donovan sat and stared off into space.
Think
, he ordered himself.
Think, Don.
The cops. Reporting Donna’s absence had been his intention prior to receiving Dullington’s call, but what would he say? What
could
he say?

In the time it would take for the cops to arrive, investigate the scene, and question him, he could be well on his way to meeting George Guffin at Rossetti’s. Even then, Donovan knew he would be the police department’s prime suspect. His wild story would be laughed at by the entire police force. They’d laugh about it for years after Donovan was locked up for murdering his wife.