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.
He looked back at the phone. Now that calling the cops was out, Donovan was left with Dullington’s demands. Aleister Dullington’s explanations flew in the face of logic, but given all Donovan had seen that week, he realized he believed the man and his threats.
“The world behind the world.” His stomach churned. He flickered, his office suddenly cast in a gray tone. After four days of seeing and experiencing the impossible, Donovan still found himself in disbelief. It was preposterous to believe that Donovan’s boring existence could make him disappear—and yet it was happening to him at that very moment.
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.
He looked back at the phone. Now that calling the cops was out, Donovan was left with Dullington’s demands. Aleister Dullington’s explanations flew in the face of logic, but given all Donovan had seen that week, he realized he believed the man and his threats.
“The world behind the world.” His stomach churned. He flickered, his office suddenly cast in a gray tone. After four days of seeing and experiencing the impossible, Donovan still found himself in disbelief. It was preposterous to believe that Donovan’s boring existence could make him disappear—and yet it was happening to him at that very moment.