Creative Differences
by Ronald Schulte
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
“Right there. Do you see him? Sitting in that car down the street?”
Doug handed me the binoculars. I could see the man he was referring to, sitting in the driver’s seat of a black SUV about half a block away.
“That’s the guy?” I asked.
“That’s him,” said Doug.
“How long has he been stalking you?”
“Couple weeks. He came to the door the first time. We had words, and I told him to get lost. But he’s been nosing around ever since.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yeah. Least I thought I did,” said Doug. I waited to see if he’d elaborate on that sentiment but he remained silent.
We watched the SUV for another ten minutes or so, until the driver abruptly started the vehicle and drove off.
I watched until the car was out of sight, then turned to Doug. “Well, I’m convinced. He was definitely scoping you out. He seemed to be looking in every possible direction except straight this way.”
“Told you,” said Doug. He ran a hand through his hair, then walked to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. His hands were shaking slightly as he poured the vodka.
“So how do you want to proceed?” I asked cautiously. This was always a delicate part of the discussion. Some people had strange ideas about the meaning of “private investigator,” shaped by whatever movie they’d seen most recently. I sat patiently and waited for Doug’s answer as he took a few more sips of his vodka tonic to steady his nerves.
“For now, just follow him,” Doug said finally. “I want to know if someone else is putting him up to this.”
“Sure, I can do that. You said you know him, right? You have a name, address, anything I can start with?”
“He told me his name is Karl Jones. But that’s not his real name. I don’t know where he’s staying. I doubt he has a permanent home.”
“Okay, I’ll check out the name anyway. How do you know this Mr. Jones?”
“I created him.”
“You... excuse me?”
“I created him. He’s one of my characters, from my books. In the books, his name is Kurt Johnston.”
I stared at Doug incredulously. He was better known to the literary world as “K. Douglas Williams,” the author of a popular series of books based on the trials and tribulations of a character named Kurt Johnston. I hadn’t read any of the books, but I did know that Kurt’s character was basically an action/adventure guy who excelled at saving the planet.
“Are you okay?” I finally asked.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Of course I don’t believe you! That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard! And I’ve heard a lot!”
“It’s him. I know it is.”
Out of morbid curiosity, I humored him for the moment. “Why would your own character be stalking you, Doug?”
“I think he’s a little pissed at me.”
“Why? What did you do, kill him off or something?”
“Exactly right! I think he’s mad that I wrote him out of the series. But that was always the plan!”
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. But... characters die in stories all the time, Doug. Right? Why would a living version of Kurt end up here, in the real world? Come on, Doug. It makes no sense!”
“I don’t know. Maybe someone else wrote him back to life? Stupid fan fiction.” Doug slugged the rest of his drink, then sat down on the sofa. I shook my head and sat down in a chair across from him.
“Doug, I think you are letting the stress get to you a little. And I think you just hit on the truth; this guy is probably just a crazy fan. Think about it: such a person would know a lot about the character, be able to do a pretty good impersonation, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” Doug paused to rub his face. “Just follow him, okay? Find out where he goes, who he talks to, where he sleeps. He parks that SUV out at the curb almost every afternoon, he should be easy to track.”
“Fine. Get some rest. I’ll keep an eye on him. If he approaches the house, I’ll stop him. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Thanks, Chuck. Call me as soon as you find anything.”
* * *
The SUV returned the following afternoon, like clockwork. I was parked about three blocks down the street, in the direction the stalker had departed the previous day. Today Doug had the blinds closed, and the stalker lost interest quickly. He pulled away from the curb after only ten minutes. I waited until the vehicle had crested a small hill, then started the engine and pulled out to follow him.
The SUV left Doug’s suburban neighborhood and headed downtown. We drove for maybe four miles, then the road switched from one lane each way to two. I stayed in the right lane and let a few cars pass me but kept the vehicle within my sights. Eventually he turned right, and I followed. He made another right, then a quick left, heading down a ramp into an underground parking garage. Bingo! I made a note of the street and building number and continued on my way.
I drove a few miles, then pulled off into a Dunkin’ Donuts. I didn’t think the guy had noticed me, but better safe than sorry. I ordered an iced coffee and waited a few minutes. By the time my coffee was finished, I was satisfied that I hadn’t been followed.
I drove back to my own apartment, switched cars, then headed to Doug’s. When Doug answered the door he looked even more frazzled than he had the previous day.
“Well? What did you turn up?”
“Relax, pal. Let’s sit down and talk about it.”
Doug took a deep breath, then waved at the kitchen table. Once we were settled, I pulled out my tablet and loaded up Google Maps. I typed in the address, then turned the screen to show Doug.
“Our guy pulled into a parking garage under this building. Number 1140 Second Ave. Does this place ring any bells?”
Doug’s eyes widened as he stared at the screen. He nearly overturned his chair as he jumped to his feet.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me! That son of a bitch! I should have known! He was always jealous. Always so very jealous.”
Now, number 1140 Second Avenue was an apartment high-rise. I had planned to round up a list of tenants as homework, but from Doug’s reaction it seemed that wouldn’t be necessary.
“I assume you know someone who lives there?”
“It’s Simmons! Sinclair freaking Simmons, that author wannabe hack! He lives in the penthouse. The guy hates me. Accused me of stealing his whacko ideas a while back. Judge threw the case away, though. Why can’t he just leave me alone?”
I vaguely remembered reading about the lawsuit. This Simmons fellow had been big for a while, but he hadn’t produced a best seller in almost ten years.
“Okay. So our guy is working for Sinclair Simmons. What’s our next move?”
Doug had a funny look on his face. “Give me a few days to think, Chuck. For now, just keep watching him and make sure he doesn’t try anything funny. I’ll call you when I need you.”
I nodded, but Doug was already wandering off down the hallway, muttering to himself. I shook my head. I was starting to regret accepting this job. I let myself out, secretly hoping I wouldn’t hear from him again.
* * *
He called a week later, out of breath and nearly hysterical with laughter. I was feeling less amused; it was dinnertime, and I was tired and hungry.
“Chuck! Get over here ASAP! I have a job for you.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow, Doug? I’m sorta beat—”
“No, no, now! I’ll pay you extra. I need you now!”
“All right, all right, settle down. I’ll be right over.”
I grabbed a burger on the way; I didn’t relish the thought of facing Doug’s brand of crazy on an empty stomach. However, by the time I arrived I had a stomachache instead. I walked to the door, rang the bell and did my best not to cringe as Doug opened the door.
“Come in, come in!” Doug said as he practically skipped down the hall.
“So what couldn’t wait until morning?” I asked.
“Ha! Take a look at this!”
I followed Doug into the kitchen. There, on the table, was a small dog in a crate. Looked sort of like a Chihuahua, but I suspected it wasn’t purebred.
“Amazing, right?” said Doug. He was beaming. I was confused.
“What? The dog? I guess.”
“You don’t recognize him?” Doug asked.
“Should I?”
“You must be kidding! It’s... wait, you don’t read Simmons, do you?”
“No, sorry,” I said with a shrug.
“Well, I don’t blame you, he stinks. Anyway, this little pup is Clyde the Destroyer! He’s telepathic, you know.”
“Doug, you need to get some help. Seriously. Get someone else, I can’t do this anymore. Keep the money. I’m out.”
I turned for the door.
Come back here, pussy.
I spun around and glared at Doug.
“What did you call me?”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Doug.
It was me, gumshoe. In the cage. Name’s Clyde. Nice to meet you.
To this day, I’ve never crapped myself on the job. But I came pretty damn close when I realized that dog was talking to me inside my own head.
“He’s talking to you, isn’t he? Ha, told you!”
I had no idea what to do. My brain couldn’t process the situation. I found myself walking over to Clyde’s cage. Clyde raised a paw, and I stretched a few fingers between the bars to shake it. I felt like I was in a trance.
“It took me a while to figure it out. How Simmons brought Kurt back, I mean. But once I figured it out, it was easy. Death is never final! They always come back somewhere. It just usually isn’t in this world, it’s usually in some fictional world, because we tend to associate fictional characters with fictional settings. But if you’re specific enough, you can make them show up here!”
“So you can manifest fictional characters... in the real world? Can all authors do this?” I asked. My brain was just playing along, trying to ask the right questions, trying to retain what little sanity remained.
“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that. You can’t just bring in any character, and you can’t create a new one. I’ve tried both. Death seems to be the key. The process of death, in any world, in any narrative, I think that’s what opens up the possibility.
“Once the character dies in their original world, they can have a go in another world. Afterlife, right? Oh, and I can’t bring back my own characters, tried that too, doesn’t work. I think you get one shot at it, as the character’s author, then someone else gets to carry on the story arc if they so choose.
“If someone else had jumped in and snagged him, Clyde might be in some other reality instead of here. But I got him! I don’t know how Sinclair flipping Simmons figured it out all on his own. Probably did it by accident.”
“But don’t authors bring back characters all the time? Within their own stories, I mean?” I felt stupid. None of this was making any sense.
“Well, yes. And no. When a character returns, it’s usually because they weren’t really dead. Right? The author tricked you into thinking they were dead, but they were really still alive. Or the character was immortal, or possessed some power that allowed them to come back from the grave. Not really dead, then. Not final. See what I mean?”
I ran my hand through my hair and took a deep breath. This had gotten way too deep for my feeble mind. I sat down at the table and tried to steer the conversation back in a direction my brain could handle.
“Let’s circle back to our original problem, Doug. You have a stalker, who may or may not be the second coming of one of your own characters. You’ve now introduced me to a dog named Clyde the Destroyer, who... wait a minute. Why is he nicknamed ‘The Destroyer’ anyway? Do I even want to know?” I glanced in Clyde’s direction. Doug was speaking to me, but I didn’t hear him; I was too distracted by the words in my head.
Check this out, Sherlock.
Clyde turned and lifted his leg. But instead of piss, a stream of fire shot out, enveloping Doug’s dishtowel. Doug quickly grabbed the towel with a pair of salad tongs and tossed it into the sink.
You like that, gumshoe?
I tried to ignore what I’d just seen. It was too much. Instead, I simply turned to Doug. “So what do you want me to do? And what about our other guy? Karl Jones?”
“Can you make a delivery?”
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Ronald Schulte
