“His name’s Leandro Warnell.” It almost sounded like Lem paused between the two names, like the first was significant enough on its own. “You’ll have to travel for this one. He’s in Alaska.”
I frowned. “I’m in the middle of the term here.”
“You want to be the one to tell the bosses that?”
Lem failed to understand the significance it was for me to try and maintain a foothold in the modern world, but he had a point. Failing to show up for a couple classes wouldn’t leave me on a pyre like making excuses to the Higher Powers would.
I sighed and crouched down to get a better look at the guy. “Is this personal or punishment?” Those were the only two reasons I erased people from the physical world. There were those who struck deals with the Higher Powers to disappear, and there were those who pissed off the wrong demon and got eliminated as a result. Surprisingly, the numbers for each remained relatively even over the centuries.
Though the image had a grainy projected quality to it, I could still tell he was a beautiful specimen of humanity. His skin was dark, the shade of old, weathered walnut, and his eyes so brown they appeared black. Five-o’clock shadow outlined his generous mouth, but his scalp was shorn nearly bald, the hair so short it looked like it was just starting to grow in after a shave. He wasn’t old, thirty on the outside, and though he wore faded jeans and a long-sleeved, red and black flannel shirt, his body was clearly lean and hard. He sat on the wooden floor of a cabin, his back against the narrow couch, his gaze fixed on something beyond the image’s reach. In his lap was a guitar that he strummed aimlessly.
I stifled the shiver that ran down my spine. No matter how often I saw it, I always found it eerie when people were clearly making some kind of noise and the image was utterly silent.
I stared at him for several minutes before I realized Lem hadn’t actually answered my question. When I looked up, I caught him watching me instead of this Leandro Warnell, though he quickly looked away before I could comment on it.
“The usual for this one,” Lem said. He started to reach for the paper, but I caught his wrist and stopped him. He immediately scowled. “What?”
“Personal or punishment?” I repeated, making sure to over-enunciate both words so he could see how annoyed I was. It wouldn’t make a difference in the end. The result was always the same. But sometimes, depending on the circumstances, I chose to make it easier for those about to be erased. Sometimes.
His nostrils flared, and he sucked air in between his teeth. He really didn’t want to answer my question. I squeezed harder, the bones grinding within my grasp. Lem didn’t make a sound of protest or pain, but I knew it hurt. Pain was one of my specialties.
“Both.”
That stopped me. “What do you mean, both?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s impossible.”
Lem shrugged. “Since when has that ever stopped us?”
“Who’s punishing him?”
A shake of the head this time. “Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He leaned forward, his obsidian gaze locked on mine. “Can’t.”
Though it didn’t happen very often, Lem’s declaration meant one of my superiors wanted his or her involvement in this assignment secret. Usually, it was to save strife from within the ranks. Erasing a favored minion was bad form. Wars had been started more than once over their inane infighting. I was just glad I was never held accountable for my actions. I was the sword, not the master. The Higher Powers understood that, though it had taken me a very long time to believe myself.
But the odds of someone both punishing this Leandro and his striking a deal at the same time were astronomical enough to be ludicrous. I don’t care what Lem said. There was something wrong about this assignment. Whether there was something I could do about it, however, was almost as impossible.
I let Lem go and turned back to the image, paying more attention to the house surrounding him. Rustic. Lots of wood. The legs of the couch had scratch marks on them. The man owned a cat. The guitar, on the other hand, was lovingly polished. I’m not a music aficionado, but I memorized its sleek lines to research later. A fool could see it was important to the man.
“What about family?” I asked.
“He lives alone up there. Should be easy to get to.”
“Timeline?”
“All I got is fast. Probably not enough time for you to finesse this one.”
I scowled. Without the so-called finesse, mistakes were made. A detail I might have missed could unravel all my work, and instead of someone simply dissolving from the annals of history, they ended up becoming a missing persons case. It had been several decades since it had last happened to me, but that last oversight had turned into a nationwide search, as the country started looking for a minor Hollywood actress who should have simply vanished from the world. The detail I missed? Her first-term pregnancy. I’d worked diligently to destroy the threads of her life—hers was a punishment from a jealous bitch above me—and yet, I’d failed to take into account her sudden decision to get an abortion. In 1949, they were still illegal, and her desires to terminate and salvage her career had proven my downfall.