Shades

Michael never spoke ill about his identical twin, but he never said much good about him either, and no one blamed him for doing so. No one, except Martin. The older they grew, the more Martin got into trouble, and the more often he lamented his miserable existence compared to his brother’s gifted one. When he was at his lowest points, drunk and maudlin, Martin would bemoan the lack of respect he felt he had always received from Michael.

When Martin crossed from misdemeanors into felonies, and graduated from county jail to the state penitentiary, Michael began visiting him. Talked with him. Bestowed kindness, the miniscule favors one could give to a state-housed convicted felon. It didn’t take long before Martin viewed his brother as a god and savior. He’d do anything his twin asked of him.

“Well,” Michael said one day, staring through the thick glass partition separating them. “There is something you could do, actually.”

“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.