Shades

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not while you’re in here.”

“I won’t be getting out for a while. Not this time.”

“I know,” Michael said. His sympathy was a reasonable facsimile of genuine.

“So throw it by me,” Martin said. “What could it hurt?”

“There’s no point,” Michael said. “It’s not something we could do anyway.”

“Whadda ya mean, we?” The thought of doing something—anything—with his brother brought Martin too much hope. His hope was his weakness, and Michael preyed on that. Martin played his hand too early. The pitiful thing was that he had no idea he’d already lost the game.

“They’re listening,” Michael said. “We’ll talk about this later. Okay?”

Martin looked into his brother’s eyes—the mirror of his own.

Get me out of here, he thought, and I’ll do whatever you want.

“You take it easy,” Michael said. “I’ll come back soon as I can.”

He placed the phone in its cradle and stood up.

Martin pressed his palm against the glass. Don’t leave me in here. Please, don’t let me rot in this shit-hole.

Just before Michael turned to exit, he locked on to his brother’s stare and responded in kind: I won’t.

His mouth never moved, but Martin had heard him anyway.

A car horn blew, bringing Bedrik back to the present.

He’d kept his promise. He hadn’t let Martin rot in that shit-hole. Instead, Michael had let Martin rot on the beach, after binding his own shadow to Martin’s corpse.

Bedrik adjusted the chain around his neck. His fingers traveled down and touched the symbol hanging upon it, then over his chest. He remembered that the shadow following him that was not his own. Self-consciousness got the better of him. His hand dropped to his side, swinging along with his gait.

Behind him, the shadow’s hand did the same.

789

He’d bought the house and moved to Brackard’s Point a year ago. He’d taken a job at the school, was polite, did his best to fit in, and kept to himself. Bedrik’s home was no different from the rest of the middle-class neighborhood. It was a raised-ranch style, and sported the typical vinyl siding, faux shutters. The root system of a large maple tree had cracked his sidewalk about three-fifths of the way down. Most of the homes in the older developments such as this had similar minimal flaws. Real estate agents called these defects “character.” Homeowners maintained the rose-tint perception, too proud to admit fault.

In the autumn, Bedrik’s maple leaves stayed only a few days before disappearing. The grass was trimmed, with few dandelions or crabgrass, and only the occasional unhealthy spot. It was not immaculate, but it wasn’t an eyesore. He could have made it lush and weed-free with a few whispered words and a few scattered ingredients, but that might have attracted attention. His mailbox looked like any other, his driveway nondescript. It was on the swell of the bell curve—so average as to be invisible. When the neighbors compared yards, his was mentioned only because of the maple. If they discussed his house at all, the only thing they came up with was that no one could recall seeing Mr. Bedrik lift a finger to maintain the place.

To his neighbors, Michael Bedrik was just another drone. He preferred it that way. He’d return a smile or wave, engage in meaningless chit-chat, gripe about the potholes on Pensie Avenue, politely bitch about politicians, but that was all. He was recognized, but not known, for none of his neighbors could comprehend the presence of such a man in their midst.

In order to see Bedrik for what he was, one would have to know some things—certain truths, certain lies… see through certain illusions, dismiss certain pretences. All far beyond the capacity of the plebes. Bedrik was an extraordinary man, and it would take another extraordinary man to identify him, his power and position. And extraordinary men, by definition, were scarce.

Gustav could have identified him, but Bedrik had masked his presence from the old man—so far. He would save Gustav for last.

His neighbors knew nothing about him, but he knew everything about them. Things they didn’t even know about themselves. He knew their names—the secret names given to them long before they were born. He knew their sins and trespasses, their signs and sigils. All they knew about him was what he wished them to know.

“I have something for you to do,” Bedrik told the shadow. “I’m going to give you a new lease on life. Tonight, you must pay a visit to Tony Amiratti Junior.”

The shade listened.

789

Danny took another cigarette from Gustav. “What do you mean, he found me?”

“You are a smart boy. You know things without ever being taught them, no?”

Danny looked away. Gustav’s words made him uncomfortable, as did the old man’s stare.

“Yes,” Gustav continued. “You know things. I know this because I know things too.”

“Jeremy was right about you. You’re weird.”

“Yes. I am. You are too, no? Many kids at school make fun of you behind your back. They do this because they’re afraid of you. Why?”

Danny shrugged. “Because of my friends? I don’t know why they’re scared of me. But Matt, Jeremy, Ronnie, and Chuck are pretty tough.”

“Your friends…Perhaps, but I think not. I think it is you who frighten them more than your friends.”

“Why, though?”

“Because you know things. You can know things about your classmates…their nightmares.”

“I don’t know anything about them.”

“Ah, but you do, you do. You know things about them intuitively; it’s second nature, yes? You are not always aware that you know these things, yet know them you do—and well. Understand?”

“No, not really.” But Danny’s dismissal had little heart.

“Not really, you say. Really, yes, you do, but you choose not to see your talents for the sake of your friends. They would think differently of you, yes? So you play dumb to make them feel better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your friends. You all pretend you’re dumber than you are as to not offend each other. It would not be seemly for one of you to excel intellectually; such is against your sensibilities.”

“Don’t be calling my friends dumb, you crazy old Commie bastard. President Reagan is gonna take care of you guys! Just wait and see.”

Gustav sighed, and took the string out of his pocket. He plucked the still-burning cigarette from Danny’s lips and quickly tied it to the end opposite the other butt, then extended his index finger. When he laid the string on his fingertip, it began to rotate, spinning like a propeller.

Danny’s anger vanished. “How are you doing that?”

“Stick your finger out.”

Hesitant, Danny offered his index finger. The spinning cigarette butts floated from Gustav’s finger to Danny’s. The speed of rotation increased, and the butts were a bit wobbly, but after a moment they stabilized.

“How the hell are you doing that?” Danny asked again. The butts quit spinning and lay limp at the ends of the string. “Hey! Why’d you make it stop?”

Gustav smiled. “Me? I wasn’t controlling it. You were.”

“No.” Danny shook his head. “There’s just no way. I don’t know how to do that.”

“It quit spinning when you questioned yourself. No?”

“Oh, come on,” Danny said.

“So hard to believe in yourself, is it? Is easy to dismiss all that’s happened to chance?”

“You’re still saying this dead guy was looking for me?”

“Perhaps he was calling for you. Looking for you, he was. I was. Lots of people are looking for you.”

“Like the truancy officer, maybe,” Danny said. “But anyone else? C’mon. No one