The Fading (47 page)

Half of the screen filled with a photo of the primary suspect behind all this good fun. He was one and the same glossy-faced
slug with geek glasses Noel had seen on a car TV earlier today. Alexander Brighton, forty-eight.

Noel stared into the man’s pixilated eyes and mouthed three words.

I see you.

Six hours later he boarded the 747, fully faded, only to find all but a dozen of the seats empty and no Continental personnel
preparing the cabin for take-off.

Anlun had his own row. The rest of his colleagues were several rows back, seated, reading reports and conversing on cellphones.

Holding himself, the passengers and most of the terminal in his blinding grip, Noel took the empty seat next to Anlun.

‘Nice to see you again,’ Anlun said.

‘You can’t see me,’ the empty seat responded.

‘You would be surprised what I can see.’ The non-agent retrieved a dossier from the briefcase between his legs and handed
it to Noel by dropping it over his lap.

Noel stopped it from sliding to the floor. ‘How did you know?’

‘I told you on the last flight,’ Anlun said. ‘You’ve graduated to the big leagues. You’ll never be happy playing farm ball
again.’

‘This isn’t play. I’m not doing this for me.’

Anlun sipped from his bottle of water.

‘Did you hear me?’ Noel said. ‘This is your fault. If you hadn’t showed me that video, I – I’m not promising anything. I’m
your scout, a pair of binoculars. Nothing more. This is one time and one time only.’

Anlun looked toward the eyes he could not see, squinting, as if by concentrating he could read them. He gave up.

Said, ‘I was the fourth man on the crime scene, you know. In the steam bay where you left Dalton.’

‘Your point?’

Anlun blew air from his cheeks. ‘Six-point-three million. That must have hurt.’

The seat belt halves undulated from beneath the armrests and rose up like a pair of curious cobras which kissed briefly before
merging as one.

Noel slipped Anlun’s water bottle from his monstrous hand, savoring the surprise of the deed a moment before drinking his
fill. He swallowed.

‘The things I’ve lost,’ Noel said, handing over the last of the water, ‘cost so much more than I ever took.’

The jet taxied away from the terminal. The engines gulped vast amounts of air and fuel to hurtle them down the runway. The
nose of the aircraft was up before he knew it, the landing gear was shuddering, and for a moment, between sky and ground,
heaven and hell, womb and grave, Noel Shaker weighed less than the molecules of air he breathed and disturbed.

I’d like to thank my editor Daniel Mallory for basically saying, ‘Yes, go write that’ after I emailed him three or four rough
sentences describing how I woke up one morning thinking about the emotional horror of invisibility and the ways in which the
condition had not yet been addressed in popular fiction and films. I doubt many authors have an editor who makes the leftovers
from their nightmares seem brilliant, but Dan is one, and his early and consistent support for my work makes a huge difference
in the pleasure I take from this job.

Major thanks are also due to my agent, Scott Miller, who had several keen insights into how I could further develop the relationship
between Noel and Theodore Dalton, and for his astute inquiries into the nature of the deceased characters throughout the novel.

My friends and fellow scribes Eric Miller, Bob Lagier, and Craig Wolf also read the manuscript and provided a little ass-kicking
in the precise areas I most needed one, reminding me time and again how the little things are also the big things.

I appreciate the ongoing dialogues, both online and over burgers and tacos, with all of you guys. You are all serious readers
and writers in your own right, and I am lucky to have your time and brain power to augment what little I have of my own.