The Search for Daniel Beadle
by Daniel Beadle - Monday, October 19, 2009
Daniel Beadle. The name isn’t much to go on. While Stalker considers himself an expert tracker, it’s the initial gathering of information that proves the most tedious. Dead-ends are encountered too often, and too soon.As with any search, Stalker begins with the Internet. Spelling becomes the first issue; the word “beetle” is not a common last name. It’s been used before, on a botanist who died in 2003, but few others carry that surname. Stalker considers an alternative, “beatle,” but that proves even less likely. Stalker considers the word “beat” as it relates to music. Perhaps the name has a different basis. If only he could get a bead on this person. A bead…
Stalker searches for another name. “Beadle.” The results are many. It’s an English name, derived from the Latin word for “herald.” Coupled with the given name “Daniel,” there are too many results to choose from. But if Mr. Light set him on this path, Stalker calculates that there must be some connection between himself and this mystery person… a connection that he would recognize. A biblical prophet who interpreted dreams shares the name “Daniel”. He also foresaw the end of the world. Does this have some bearing on Stalker’s situation? Or is this just apophenia in action?
Stalker delves into the social networking sites, scanning through the photos of strangers. A child. A husband. A musician. Who are all these people? he wonders. All these faces… these lives that connect and separate like pools of rainwater on a pane of glass. He looks at their friends, their acquaintances. It’s a lot of information to sift through, so he limits his search to the United States, and begins looking for something—anything familiar.
The search is fruitless without more insightful information. Stalker needs facts that aren’t found in bulleted lists and stat sheets. So he finds the phone numbers, and he braces himself for the awkward conversations to come.
Stalker stares at the numbers on the screen, and then slowly begins dialing the numbers. He waits nervously for a response.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Daniel Beadle.”
“Yeah, he’s out right now. You want to leave a message?”
“Just tell him that Graham was looking for him.”
“Yes?”
“Who is this?”
“What was your name again?”
“Sta—Graham…”
“Stan?”
“I’m just looking for Daniel Beadle?”
“Daniel Vito?”
“I’m sorry pal, he’s gone now.”
“He’s busy.”
“That fucker left town. Good luck finding him.”
“You tell him he owes me money!”
“I’m Danny Beadle.”
“Do you know about the Stalker Imperative?”
“No. Should I?”
“Who’d you say this was?”
“I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
“Who are you?”
“This is Dan.”
“Do you recognize my voice?”
“I’m sorry, you got the wrong number.”
“Hello Graham. How’s the search going?”
“Beadle, not Veal. B-E-A-”
“Oh, D, as in dog.”
“Exactly.”
“Last name first.”
“Daniel.”
“You mean Danny?”
“Dan. Dan Beadle.”
“Damn Beadle?”
“Like the bug?”
“Like the band.”
“I’m not who you’re looking for.”
“How do you know him?”
“Does the Stalker Imperative mean anything to you?”
“Impera-what?”
“Well, according to my files, Beadle’s last known address was… 110 Phoenix Street in… Glendale, Arizona… But he’s…”
“Thank you.”
“…Wait!”
“Daniel Beadle died years ago.”
“Hi, I’m looking for a… Daniel Beadle?”
“Ahh, yeah… he used to live here, but he moved out about a week ago. Moved up to Massachusetts… somewhere on the cape, I think.”
“Are you Daniel Beadle?”
“I am.”
“What can I do for you?”
“This might sound crazy, but… I was told you could help me out…”
“Help you out?”
“With information.”
“He doesn’t live here anymore.”
“No one’s seen him since last summer.”
“Good luck finding him.”
“I thought he died.”
“He doesn’t come around much anymore.”
“But you’ve seen him, right?”
“Who is Daniel Beadle?”
“I need to find him.”
“Why?”
“HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?”
“Is this Daniel Beadle?”
“This is.”
“He’s dead.”
“Married.”
“Divorced.”
“Engaged.”
“Dead.”
“…No records beyond 2005…”
“What’s your last name?”
“You related?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. who? Sorry pal.”
“Came in here a few times. Friends with some guy named Devin.”
“Devin Manning?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t know me, but I’m trying to find someone named Daniel Beadle. I heard you were friends with him?”
“And why are you trying to find him?”
“I know this sounds weird, but I think we’re related.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious. Look… did he disappear after the summer of 2005?”
“No… I just haven’t seen him since then.”
“Do you any idea where he is now?”
Dead ends. False leads. Confusion and miscommunication. What is the Stalker Imperative? Stalker remembers his encounter with Dylan Thorne, where the Stalker Imperative was effectively a prelude to some larger scheme. A necessary test of causality. But that was a dream, wasn’t it? What would some stranger know about the Imperative?
Stalker rubs his face, casting his eyes down at the scrap papers on the desk before him. There are two-dozen Daniels named “Beadle,” and twenty-one of them are easily ruled out. A list of people oblivious to his existence. The others are unresponsive. One completely dropped off the face of the earth. Stalker looks at the address of the missing Daniel. Some small town halfway between Boston and Providence.
Five hours later, Stalker is standing in front of the last known location of Daniel Beadle. It’s a small suburban street, with colonial houses lining either side. Stalker imagines that the windows of the houses are eyes that watch his every move. It’s midday, but the sky is overcast. Clouds hang in the air, with the eerie threat of an approaching storm. A faint breeze trickles through the air. Stalker holds out his hand to feel the invisible touch of the wind.
“You find him, and all this ends.” That was the last thing that Mr. Light told Stalker. Stalker remembers bleeding on the bathroom floor of a motel. He recalls the sinister smirk of Jake Alberts, and the unnerving conversation with the Man with Sunglasses. Stalker struggles to picture the face of Mr. Dark, but his mind redirects to the face of Dylan Thorne. Random shards of a broken mind? He barely remembers Jennifer’s face. Did he make her up for the sake of hurting himself? No. Stalker dismisses the thought, and returns to the here and now.
Stalker’s looks at the house before him. It used to be something better, something brighter. But the ravages of time have reduced it… no, perfected it to its current state. The house is a memory in a land without memories. It appears as a representative of a childhood that no one ever had. A dead tree holds a tire swing. An empty bench sits in the front lawn. Everything seems like a shadow of something that could have been, but never was. Stalker savors the view, the calm stillness of this land, and remembers the notion of the Dark Heaven. When he imagines death, he does not always see pleasure or pain, reward or punishment. Sometimes, he imagines a world that exists in the empty space between Heaven and Hell, containing aspects of both but devoted to neither. Has he died? It’s unclear, but he continues forward, regardless.
Stalker enters the house, but is not entirely sure how. Maybe he kicked the door in. Maybe he broke a window. Maybe the door was unlocked. Or maybe someone invited him in. It’s a dark place, and Stalker feels a frisson of fear run through him. He’s not sure he wants to find what he’s looking for.
“…No records beyond 2005…”
Has this house been abandoned since then? So many years ago… Stalker looks at the pictures in the living room. A family with frozen faces, feigning happiness. He looks at the trinkets and memorabilia… artifacts of lives no one will remember. An old computer sits in the corner, surrounded by dusty papers and old files. Stalker begins sifting through them, finding an old composition paper with a single sentence written in pencil:
“As the wind blows, the leaves on the trees dance and sway. So pretty to see.” Nonsense. He turns the paper over, and his heart stops. It’s a list.
“…Hair toss. Hazel eyes. I love you. Accidentally in love. Applebee’s. Sinatra. Caramel kisses. Boxers or briefs. Lady in red. Kissing in the rain. Stealing love. Slow dancing. Waiting for the night to start. I’m in heaven. Flower in her hair. Plastic tulip. Rain plans. Last dance. Neither one of us deserves the blame. Party for two. Diner. Sleepover. We’ll take these. Scrambled eggs…”
A list of details. A list of memories. Stalker notices two letters written in the corner: “S.I.” He looks beyond the paper, and notices a pink piece of yarn sticking out from under the stack. He fishes it out, finding it attached to a note written on heavy stock paper. A card. He reads the feminine handwriting on the back.
“I miss you everytime we are apart… I miss your smile… I’d hold hands forever as long as you never let go.” Stalker hears Jennifer’s words on the night they parted at summer’s end. But the note isn’t signed with her name. Beside the heart, the note is signed “Jill.” Stalker flips the card over, looking at the hearts on the cover that accent the name “Dan.”
Stalker looks up, out of the house. Fear grips him when he sees a man sitting in the bench in the front yard. Stalker drops the note and walks to the front door. He exits the house slowly, trying to keep the panic that grips him at bay. There is no sound. No wind. The trees, the world is motionless. Like a nightmare, there is nothing obviously frightening about the circumstance, but there’s a tension in the air. There is an indescribable fear. Stalker keeps his eyes fixed on the man on the bench, stepping cautiously over the dead lawn. His heart thumps against his sternum and his mouth goes dry. He tries to speak, but nothing comes of it.
The man on the bench does not move. His face is identical to that of the Stalker’s, sans the scarring. His eyes are brown, not green, and his hair is slightly shorter. As Stalker approaches him, he makes no sign that he even knows Stalker is there. He stares forward, lost in a trance. Stalker sits beside him, not sure of what to say or how to say it. He calms himself as much as he is able, and voices his most pressing question.
“Are you Daniel Beadle?”
The man is silent. Stalker wonders if he asked the question out loud.
“I once tasted life…” whispers the man. “I loved someone. I loved someone who loved me.” He looks to the sky. “It was painful letting her go. Our lives… separated.” He lowers his eyes to the empty street. “I considered making some grand romantic gesture… winning her back. I considered it. I almost made the trip. …But I didn’t. Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can get it. It’s not like she was my soul mate, or anything that dramatic. She was a just a girl who walked beside me for a while…”
The man sighs. “But the whole experience left me with a lot of emotions scrambling for release. So I wrote them all down. …It was imperative that I got them all out.”
Stalker stares at the ground as his mind fits all the pieces together. He feels an overwhelming sense of loss and isolation. He feels alone. And he is.
Daniel Beadle is gone.
“If you wake up at a different time, and a different place, could you wake up as a different person?”—Chuck Palahniuk
