The Fading Read online

  He focused on making good time. He thought of Julie getting out of the shower. Her naked body that he hadn’t peeked at. He’d slept beside her all day. The smell of her bed, the smell of her body when she came back from the shower, all soapy fresh. He hadn’t showered in almost three days and was filmy from all the walking. Home. A hot bath. That would be so nice, but he couldn’t spare the time. Julie needed her meds.

  He watched his invisible feet boost clouds of snow from the perfect sparkling plane stretching before him, plowing for what seemed half an hour to cover only a couple hundred feet, and when he next looked up a police cruiser was parked in the unplowed parking lot beside the park, its exhaust pipe emitting a cyclone of steam.

  Noel stopped, his chapped and stinging face flushing with fear. Oh, Jesus. This was very bad. How long had the cop been parked there? What had he or she seen?

  For many years Noel had feared that his bubble of invisibility, while absolute in every respect (to the best of his ability to tell during all the early tests he had performed), might, in certain light, caught at the right angle, reveal some kind of human shape. Or the suggestion of a shape, like the thinnest scree of ice melting from a sculpture, or a transparent mannequin sealed in plastic food wrap. Times he had feared projecting even the rainbow effect of a soap bubble blown on a sunny day, seen for a few seconds and gone the next, but in between rendering some feature (his jawline, a shoulder) visible to the chance human eye. Personally he had never recorded such an effect, not in daylight or dusk or night, not with mirrors or magnifying glasses or photos – and he’d tried them all.

  But this was different. He was crossing an open field of snow. An error so colossal and lazily committed, he now questioned his sanity. Recent days had wound up his emotions, messed with his head, allowed him to abandon caution. And maybe he was simply, in the manner of dwindling supplies, running out of control.

  Staring at the idling police car, his fear came back in a toxic splash, waking him to the severity of his terrible ailment all over again.

  The cop car was still there. Noel did not take another step.

  Standing perfectly still, he felt them.

  Delicate, silent, touching his cheeks like tiny cold bugs.

  Snowflakes.

  It was one thing to venture out at midnight in a snowstorm, when everyone’s visibility was tainted by the darkness and wind, but in daytime? The flakes could be painting him in a connect-the-dots mirage even now, catching on his clothes and face and limbs. Had the cop seen this yet? Or only the ground, the trail in the snow? Even if the falling snow had not given him away, what living thing, what creature, did the cop imagine was making this little path across the park, cutting a line directly toward his idling cruiser? A rabbit? A fox? Noel did not have to turn around and look back to know that his path resembled, more than anything else, a trail of human footsteps.

  The cruiser was just sitting there, idling. Which meant someone was in the car. There had been no response. Maybe the cop hadn’t even looked this way. Was it possible he had parked for a few minutes to catch a nap before his shift began? Maybe he was sipping coffee, reading the paper, listening to a sports call-in show, or snoring to the static of his walkie-talkie, waiting for a squelch to rouse him and point him toward a crime being committed elsewhere. Hell, the cop might not even be in the car right now, but taking a leak inside that little cinderblock hut of restrooms. Maybe—

  The driver’s side door opened. A broad-shouldered officer in his winter blues planted a foot on the ground and rose up. He screwed on a flat-topped cop hat, brass badge glinting, and his indistinct face locked on Noel’s position. He took a few steps and planted his hands on his hips, projecting his authority into a situation that was so far unexplainable but definitely disturbing his peace.

  Any other time, in any other weather, Noel would have simply turned and run. Or walked away, calmly and quietly. But he couldn’t do that now. His best move was no move at all. Stand dead still and wait. Let the cop think it was an animal after all, one which had disappeared into a hole in the ground. Let the man grow bored, cold, give up and get back in his car to finish his latte and Danish.

  But the officer, who was armed – the shotgun bracketed to the dashboard could be seen through the open door, plus the holster on his hip – and standing at attention, did not look bored at all. In fact his interest seemed only to be on the increase. His right hand casually landing on the holster.

  No. Don’t you do it, fucker, Noel thought at the cop with such ferocity he almost believed he were capable of invading the man’s thoughts. Not one step more, you hear me? Leave that pistol holstered in good and tight, and never mind the shotgun strapped to the dash. Get back in your car and go jump-start somebody stuck in a snowbank. I don’t even exist, you got it?

  For a crazy moment, it actually seemed to work. The cop relaxed his hand from the holster, cuffed his nose and turned away. He looked back toward the baseball diamond and the clubhouse, as if wanting someone else to confirm that, yes, he was being silly.

  He walked to the cruiser’s rear end and popped the trunk. He bent over, disappearing under the metal lid, and came out fussing with a gray or black plastic block about the size of a heavy-duty flashlight.

  It wasn’t until the officer marched back to the spot he had been observing from a moment ago, raising the blocky tool like he had stepped into a booth at the precinct firing range, that Noel figured out what he was holding. It was a gun, but not the kind that fired bullets.

  Radar. Or a laser version of the same. Used for clocking speeders.

  Question was, what was it going to allow the cop to clock?

  Back when Noel purchased his used 4-Runner, one of his first stops had been at Soundtrack, the local electronics outlet, to buy a radar detector (he was an extremely careful driver, both in and out of the bubble). The man who had helped him, a short, chatty dude with long sideburns, a skinny piano tie and a Stray Cats hairdo, had introduced himself as ‘Dom, like the champagne, only smoother’. After trying and failing to pimp Noel into an Alpine CD player and a Cerwin Vega bass rack, Dom walked Noel through the ‘bacon detectors’. You had your radar detector, your LIDAR detector, and the newest thang, which ran about four hundred and detected both. What’s the difference, Noel had inquired? Why do I care?

  A radar gun, the cop-despising Dom had explained, sends out a cone of microwaves that bounce back and report any disturbance or travel within the cone, registering a doppler shift, which the machine used to calculate speed. A laser-operated gun, or LIDAR (Dom had reeled of the acronym’s full name and meaning, but Noel hadn’t really cared for the details, just the results) sends out a concentrated beam of infrared light, or actually hundreds of pulses of same, that taken together report a similar discrepancy to confirm movement and calculate the speed of a given object.

  All of this information came back to Noel now in the park, but the big question remained unanswered and he wished Dom were here now to offer an opinion.

  I’m not a car and I’m not moving, so what the fuck is this cop’s neat little machine going to tell him once he points it at me, Dom? Radar, LIDAR, neither one painted a digital picture of a car, truck, deer, man. But what if the nasty little thing simply bounces its rays off me and confirms what the cop suspects – it ain’t moving, but there’s something out there.

  Noel had no idea if the gun could give the cop such information. He had no idea if his bubble would absorb, deflect, reflect or allow the signal to pass through him altogether. He supposed that at this distance of some thirty or forty yards, there was a chance the gun wouldn’t be able to find him at all, that its signal would continue across the snowfield unhindered, revealing nothing in its path.

  Such optimistic hopes died a few seconds later when Noel imagined he could make out the cop’s finger squeezing the trigger and then heard, without having to use his imagination at all, the little machine chirping like a bird.

  Tearing his gaze away from whatever screen was position
ed on the backside of the gun, the cop looked up with an expression of vague disappointment. He lowered the gun to his side and Noel thought, that’s right, I’m not moving, so your little machine can’t help you this time, officer. Now move along.

  The cop turned and lobbed the speed gun into the bucket seat. Then without further hesitation began to march across the snow to have himself a closer look.

  Dom? Oh, Dom? What do you make of this bacon right here?

  Buddy, I think that gun didn’t see shit, but unfortunately for you that only confused him more. You tweezed the copper’s nibblets leaving those tracks back there, he’s headed your way now, and, basically, yeah buddy, you’re fucked.

  22

  Noel forced himself to keep his body still as his mind snapped and tangled for a way to avoid confrontation, preferably before the cop got close enough to touch. The curious bastard was in no hurry and the virgin snow was making extra work of this short stroll, and that original distance of some forty yards was shrinking with terrifying rapidity. If he continued on this course, in less than a minute the cop would be standing on Noel’s toes and things would get very interesting.

  The snow dusting down from the gray sky was sparse, but enough for Noel to watch as the occasional flake – large feathery flakes that should have blown by or settled on the ground where he stood – caught on his sleeves, his legs, halting in midair and sticking before they were absorbed into the bubble or simply melted on his clothing. There probably weren’t enough of these little ‘catchers’ to give him away from such a distance, but soon the cop would be close enough to notice the obstruction. An obstruction that, the longer you stared at it, began to resemble an invisible object just about the size and shape of an adult human being.

  His options were:

  Run. Pray he doesn’t give chase or shoot you in the back simply to confirm what he suspects – holy shit, that’s a shape-shifting man or alien or some other fucking miracle creature fleeing across the park. Sure, maybe the cop would freeze up, too puzzled to act. More likely, such drastic flight would provoke aggression, bring into question the cop’s sanity, and threaten his sense of safety. This was the most appealing option based on sheer primal instinct, but it would only trigger chaos, arrest, serious injury or death.

  Thirty yards and closing.

  Wait. Do nothing, don’t move a wink, don’t make a sound. Make the cop go all the way with this, running into you or screaming in your face and arresting your invisible ass on the spot before you give anything away. It will take nerves of steel, but at some point, so long as he doesn’t come into contact with you, he might miss you by just enough to grow bored of the game and go home. And if he does bump into you, he might just be too shocked or creeped out to do anything more than back away, skin crawling, and get the hell out of here. This option held less appeal, in that it would require perfect stillness, silence, and willpower.

  Even as Noel was considering this option, he noticed a billow of his breath curling from under his nose and realized he would have to stop breathing soon, possibly for minutes while the cop convinced himself he had been mistaken, that there was no one here.

  Twenty yards and closing. This wasn’t happening. Right? Somebody?

  Scare the shit out of him. Wait until the cop gets right up close and then lunge, screaming or growling, making deranged lunatic sounds, using the element of pure surprise to throw the man off stride, trip him up, throw a punch if you have to and then run like a tornado. Insanity, in other words. A level of confirmation sure to force the cop to retaliate.

  Fifteen yards.

  Close enough for Noel to see his pale cheeks beneath a scrubby, three-day growth of red or brown whiskers, his probing dark brown eyes, the tense caution building beneath the casually inquisitive exterior.

  Twenty feet.

  Lie. Play ghoul. Talk CIA, National Security. Tell a story, project authority, pull rank, and hope the asshole buys it. Yeah, right.

  Ten.

  Too late now.

  The cop had stopped less than six feet away. He was staring at the precise spot in the snow where the tracks ended and eight or nine inches of undisturbed sugar had accumulated. Noel could smell the nylon and cigarettes and human-ness embedded in the man’s jacket, could hear the man’s shallow breathing, and it wasn’t difficult to stop himself from breathing altogether.

  Beneath the fur collar, the engraved gold bar over his breast pocket said M. Sylvester. He looked up slowly, practically sniffing the air, and it was beyond strange and terrifying to watch the policeman study the space where his legs, waist and upper body were hiding in plain sight, until he was simultaneously staring right at him and through him. For a moment they were looking into each other’s eyes as surely as if he were a 100 per cent visible person, and at that moment Noel wanted more than anything to speak, to confess, to apologize and give himself up. It was simply unbearable to be stared at by a cop, so close but separated by a secret with the power to change lives, or end them. He felt as though he had already been arrested and was now cuffed to the table in an interrogation room.

  A single lazy snowflake dipped and twirled from the gray sky between them, the faintest breeze pulling it toward Noel until it settled on his right cheek, tickling before dissolving to water.

  Did M. Sylvester see it? Did he see it? I think he—

  The cop blinked, turning his attention back to the ground. What the hell was going through his mind? Was there a war raging behind his watery eyes, logic versus instinct, the fact of the footprints (Someone just made these!) versus what his senses were telling him (And now they’re gone!)?

  Pain flared through Noel’s lungs. He’d been holding his breath for almost a minute, and he doubted he could last another full minute before he gasped.

  Officer M. Sylvester looked to Noel’s side, scanning the ground, and then walked in a wide circle around and behind him, out of view. He couldn’t see the cop without turning his head, but he dared not move. He was cold and stiff from standing here, and a nervous dizziness clouded his head. He felt perched on a balance beam. Any movement might cause him to lose his equilibrium and shuffle his feet to keep from falling over. Even the slightest shift of his weight would disturb the snow, alert the cop with a delicate wet crunching sound.

  The footsteps paused. Leather creaked. M. Sylvester’s belt or boots flexing as he … what? Knelt? Bent over to inspect the tracks? Crept up behind Noel, gathering courage to shove his nightstick through the air, into Noel’s back?

  Fire in his lungs.

  His heart thudding in protest, demanding more oxygen.

  Carefully, silently, Noel released spent breath in a slow and steady stream, and opened his mouth wide to draw deeply, filling himself with fresh cold air, then clamped it shut again.

  The swish of clothing. Squeaking boots coming closer, snow crunching, and then the cop was in front of him again, surveying the park with his back to Noel. Hope rose up inside him. Yes, yes, go away now. You had your look, there’s nothing more to see.

  M. Sylvester turned around once more, facing a few degrees to Noel’s right side. He took several tentative steps toward his quarry and stopped, squinting, angling his ear slightly. Listening. What did the cop think he’d heard? Noel’s heartbeat? Impossible, but right now it didn’t seem impossible at all.

  Noel found his own gaze drifting down to the gun. The butt was snapped under a leather cover. If he got close enough … no. No way. If he went for the gun, he would only wind up getting himself shot.

  ‘Something else,’ the cop mumbled, shaking his head as he backed away a few steps and looked up to the sky.

  Snowflakes. Three or four and then ten breaking away from a flock of others, cupped by the breeze, spinning, drawing into the pocket of air between two men.

  M. Sylvester’s eyes caught on them, following as the cluster spread and met flat resistance at Noel’s chest. He blinked, and looked Noel up and down with fascination bordering on disbelief. All but snarling, he took one step
forward and slapped at the air, except in this case the air turned out to be Noel’s shoulder and the slap of hand against parka echoed dully. The force wasn’t much, but the surprise of it caused Noel to stumble, gasping as he fell on his ass, disturbing the snow blanket.

  ‘What the shit!’ Officer M. Sylvester ducked back and away, withdrawing his hand as if he had touched fire. ‘What in the shit!’

  Panic erupted. Noel shuffled back on his elbows, kicking, a flurry of movement flinging the snow in all directions. The cop’s eyes bulged and he jumped to the side, hopping in clumsy steps as Noel struggled to his feet, lifting and trailing clods of snow. His breathing was that of a man who has just sprinted the forty-yard dash, and the cop heard it all.

  ‘Don’t move! Stay right there! How’d you do that?’ M. Sylvester shouted, one hand on his holster, the other jabbing at Noel, palm faced out. ‘Who are you? What is this?’

  Noel wanted to scream stop, don’t do this, please stop!, but he knew better than to speak. His experience with Julie and Lisa at age fourteen had taught him that.

  Instead, equally unwisely, he continued to scramble away, punching new holes in the snow with his invisible boots, waiting to find out if the cop was actually going to draw the weapon before he turned and ran for his life.

  Officer M. Sylvester came at him like a man trying to corner a rattlesnake, unsure whether to trap it or kill it. Leaping forward a few steps, halting, eyes darting up and down, trying to get a mental hold on what he was witnessing.

  ‘I see you, fucker, Jesus Christ, don’t move, don’t move!’

  The holster snapped open and M. Sylvester’s thick hand slapped at the butt of the gun, groping for it without taking his eyes off Noel’s multiplying tracks.

  ‘No!’ Noel finally barked. ‘No, no, no!’ The gun flipped a switch inside him and he went from scared to furious and flat-out terrified. All he was trying to do was go get her fucking pills, take a fucking walk across town, and now the possibility of the gun equaled the certain end of his life.