This wasn’t the hard, twisted man Ben had expected. He was a nothing, a scared child in a grown-up body. He clearly could not understand what was happening around him, the noise and the people inundating him in stimulus he couldn’t comprehend. Ben let the gun fall to his side as their eyes locked, Moscovich’s empty of the cold evil that Ben had needed to destroy. Then the crowd swept past him and Leonard was loaded into the waiting police car.
After Leonard had pulled away and the reporters were grumbling about the lack of comments from the publicly condemned, Ben finally tore his eyes away from the direction the car had taken and started to stumble back to his car. He threw the windbreaker and gun onto the back seat, filled with loathing and horror. He peeled out of the parking spot and headed for home instead of work, unable to stomach being around any other people.
His traitorous brain kept going over what had happened, replaying the terrified expression on the round face of the captive, the shouting mob of reporters. He could still feel the steel in his hand, the pressure of his finger against the trigger. And then his mind made the leap, and he started to imagine what would have happened if he had actually been able to fire the pistol. Screaming, running, blood at his feet. He’d never seen anyone shot in real life, but he could imagine it. He might have actually killed him. The blood in his mind was so vivid he could smell it, and his stomach revolted.
He yanked the car to the curb and opened his car door, trying to stop heaving.
He sat with his hazard lights on for another few minutes, head back against the headrest, and tried to breathe normally. When the light-headedness had passed, he pulled back into traffic and changed directions, heading back to work. The desire to be rid of the gun outweighed any desire he had to be alone.
Ben wandered back into the warehouse and went straight to the long-term bay. There was now overbearing opera music rattling through the warehouse, sounding German in origin. He pulled the clip out, trying to empty it with shaking hands.
Reg’s voice came from behind him. “Hey there, Ben, going over the long-term stuff?”
“Yup.” Ben hastily set down the now empty gun in its drawer and slammed it shut.
“I could have sworn that I didn’t see any guns up in the next little while for auction. Just admiring them?” The auditor strode forward and slid open the drawer. He fingered the pistols for a moment while Ben held his breath. He kept reminding himself he had a perfectly legitimate excuse for handling the firearms. He was their keeper, after all. And nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing. His stomach churned over at the thought of what had almost happened. What kind of person was he if he could even think about taking another man’s life?
“Just checking to make sure there weren’t any signs of rust or anything. You can’t sell a gun that doesn’t work.” Ben’s newly empty stomach combined with his revulsion and his head swam. He put a hand out to the shelf to steady himself.
“Oh, well, this won’t do. Can’t have a man of your stature go down, we won’t be able to shift you out of the way! You eaten yet today, boy?”
Ben gritted his teeth at the now overly solicitous man. Why couldn’t he just remain uninterested and aloof, particularly at this moment? “I am no boy.”
“Well, I guess that crankiness means you could use some lunch. Come on, let’s get that darling little assistant of yours to go get us some sandwiches. I need to do your interview.” He went to grab Ben’s upper arm, but Ben stepped out of his way, giving a mocking bow out of the bay to disguise his shaking.
“She would hate to hear you call her a little darling,” Ben informed the man’s back as they headed toward the desk.
“It is most ridiculous how women take these endearments as something offensive. Reflects nothing whatsoever on them. Harrumph.” Reg stuck his head out of the warehouse. “Sylvia! Sylvia! Oh, there, excellent. Come now, be a good girl and retrieve some sandwiches from the deli. I ordered already. You just need to pick them up.”
Sylvia’s voice echoed from the hallway, “And you need me to pick them up because?”
“Because I’m about to do Ben’s evaluation, and the poor man is falling over from malnutrition!” The auditor shut the door before Sylvia could answer. “Alright now, let’s get down to it, shall we?”
“Fine, I guess.” Ben dropped himself back into his own office chair, gesturing the auditor towards the folding chair propped against the cubicle wall. He didn’t have the patience to pander to the man today, nor the stability to try and balance his large frame on the small chair. How he was going to concentrate on an interview when the image of Moscovich’s frightened face kept flashing across his mind, he had no idea.
“Ha, I see how this is going to go then. Don’t mind if I do.” Reg retrieved the chair and tried to settle into it. “Damn uncomfortable things. And no matter the weather, always cold. Why is that, d’you think?” Reg paused while pulling out a notebook.
“Because they’re metal.”
“Herm? Oh, quite, yes. Now, let’s see. You’ve been here how long?”
“One month, says so on my paperwork.”
“Sure, sure, just easier to ask you. Now. Sylvia is your assistant, correct?”
Ben was unprepared for the question, having been trying vainly to mentally prepare himself for questions about his work, not about Sylvia. “She is more of a Center gopher. She helps me, she helps readers and sorters, she does the shredding. Frankly, I think she secretly runs the place sometimes.”
“I see, yes, but she works closely with the objects and the mail?”
Ben crossed his arms, even in his distracted state picking up on the fact that Reg was asking loaded questions. “We all do.”
“Mmhm. Well, has anything ever seemed to go missing?”
“You mean besides the whole safe full of valuable objects?”
“Actually, seems to be there wasn’t a whole lot that was valuable in there. The last clerk kept an odd assortment of things in there like a voodoo doll, and,” he consulted a list at the back of the binder, “a set of false teeth, several ancient ‘round the world’ letters, and a tiara set with glass stones.”
“Really?” This wasn’t the first that Ben had heard about the missing items; he had seen the list of items that had wandered off and there was much more on it than that. “Nothing valuable at all?”
Reg waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, of course there was about seven thousand dollars worth of jewelry as well. It was just the other stuff that seemed odd.”
Ben shrugged and tried to force himself to relax, knowing that his defensiveness was only going to get himself, if not Sylvia, in trouble. Focusing on how much the little man across the desk irritated him seemed to help him get the image of Moscovich’s terrified face out of his head. “Well, if it’s gone, it’s gone. I haven’t particularly noticed anything else.”
“Alright. How does Sylvia seem to you? Mentally, I mean.”
Ben shifted his weight back and forth on his chair, picturing his assistant’s flighty outbursts and dramatic over-reactions to such questions. “I thought this was a review about me.”
“Why so agitated?”
“I just…I really don’t like talking about people behind their backs; it’s dishonest.”
Reg nodded sagely and made a note on his pad of paper. “I quite understand, honor and all that, refreshing to find someone around here with your principles. Especially as some might question the relationship between an older man and his young pretty assistant.”
For the first time, Ben was thankful that he and Sylvia were unhappy with each other. It made it easier to lie to this man about them having slept together. “Frankly, you’ve seen how cold she is to me.”
“Yes, yes. But one never can tell in situations like this.”
Ben rubbed his hands briskly over his face and sat up a little straighter, willing the a
uditor to believe the line of border-truth he was about to deliver. “Well, we’re nothing but colleagues. I thought we had been working towards being friends, but now I’m not so sure. I think perhaps she was simply taking pity on the new guy for a bit there.”
“She’s a girl. They all have their unreasonable moments. It is probably just that time of the month.” The auditor whispered the last to Ben.
Appalled at the man’s lack of tact, Ben decided to just agree with him. It was easier than trying to point out where Reg had gone wrong in his entire philosophy of dealing with women. “Sure. Right. Whatever. Is there anything else?”
Reg laughed and leaned back in his folding chair, obviously uncomfortable but trying not to show it. “Of course, haven’t even made it to your questions yet.”
Ben made an expansive gesture and settled back into his desk chair, willing the little man to hurry up. “Well then, please, let’s get this over with.”
“Alright, why do you think you are qualified for this job?”
Ben snorted. “Besides the fact that I was hired?”
Reg didn’t even bat an eye, just repeated the question. “Yes, why are you qualified?”
“I was a library science major, and I spent a long time working in an antique shop. It’s given me a unique take on organization and research.”
The auditor scribbled a few notes and then looked back up. “Sounds like a good enough set of reasons to me. And how do you run your days? What’s a typical day like?”
The auditor asked question after question, all about the minute details of Ben’s days, his methods for handling the property that came through his office. At one point, Sylvia returned with the sandwiches and handed them to Reg. The two men ate in relative silence before Reg picked his pen back up. “So, onwards and upwards, eh? You have access to all these powerful search programs. Are you ever tempted to misuse them?”
Ben crumpled his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the trash before responding. “What do you mean by misuse?”
Reg leaned forward, eager. “For your own purposes. That sort of thing.”
After a split-second hesitation, Ben responded, “No sir, I do not. I mean, not all of the searches so far have been strictly related to the items going up for auction and the like. I’ve been getting to know the system, trying random searches to see what comes up. So that as we move forward I know exactly how to best utilize my resources.”
The man nodded, making more notes. “Well, that makes perfect sense, accounts for some of the things I was noticing. Nothing related, perhaps, to the search for your son?”
Ben went cold. He wanted this man and his chauvanistic antagonism as far from the search for his boy as possible. “What about my son?”
“I hear you’ve a bit of an obsession going.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. And no, I’m not using the programs in that fashion. If my preliminary searches trying to figure out the software have seemed related, it’s in a strictly subconscious fashion, I assure you.” This seemed to satisfy the auditor and they meandered around other subjects for a half hour before the auditor declared their interview was done.
“I think that’s all for now. Could you be a gent and send your lady friend in? It’s her turn for the grill next.” Reg stood and stretched his back, waiting just long enough for Ben to get out of the more comfortable desk chair before commandeering it again.
Ben struggled not to comment on the man’s lack of tact and started a new mantra reminding himself of the short time span the man would be sitting there. “Of course. I’ll just go do her job in the meantime.”
“That’s the spirit!” Reg bent back over his notes, scribbling furiously.
Ben found Sylvia out in the shredding area, disconsolately staring at a piece of ivy stationary. “His highness is requesting your presence.”
“Mmhm.”
He waited a moment and tried again, unsure whether her noncommittal response was due to her lingering distaste for him or whether she was lost in her own world again. “What you got there?”
“Letter to Santa.”
“In the middle of summer? Ambitious. What do they want?”
“A life-size Barbie and glow sticks.” She dropped it in the shredder and clomped down the stairs, thrusting the partially emptied shredding box into his hands. “Care for a go?”
“Thanks, I’m sure.”
He watched Sylvia trudge out of the sorting room and down the hallway, then took himself up the stairs to the top of the shredder. He shook the box out, watching the paper drift down and into the grinding plates that minced the paper. Strips were apparently not good enough; this shredder ground envelopes and letters into a fine confetti. He watched the spinning wheels for a moment, trying to shake off everything from the day; Sylvia’s anger, his near-assassination attempt, Reg’s interrogation. It seemed the old adage was right, bad things come in threes.
Leaving the machine running, he grabbed three more crates in a go, dropping them at the top of the stairs to pour them into the machine one at a time. As he watched, each one was rendered unreadable, having never been read or understood. The readers weren’t supposed to read them, after all. The only person he’d ever seen actually read the letters was Sylvia.
There was a green envelope on top of the next crate, addressed in loopy script to Poppi from Nina. It was opened, and the letter stuffed haphazardly back inside after the cursory scanning of the readers. It was matching stationary with a small wren watermarked on the back.
Poppi,
When are you coming back? Mama says not any time soon, but we miss you. She cries a lot when she doesn’t think we’re watching, and that makes us sad. Please, Poppi, hurry up.
Nina
He tried to picture the family, broken, but gave up when all he could imagine was his son’s empty bedroom. He threw the letter and envelope into the shredder, followed by the last bin of shredding and watched it all tear.
Claims
Now, when somebody actually takes responsibility and tracks down their wayward package, we are responsible for making sure it is then properly repackaged and addressed and sent to its rightful destination. It’s such a pity that too few of our residents get claimed. Worse yet are the ones that people just give up on without even trying to find out what happened to them.
~ Gertrude Biun, Property Office Manual
The rest of the auditor’s week went by in almost the same fashion. He kept the cubicle in the warehouse for himself, interviewing staff member after staff member: readers, sorters, and cleaning staff. He requested ancient files as well as reports and data from the previous few weeks.
Ben spent as little time at the Center as he felt he safely could. Since his office had been commandeered, there wasn’t a lot he could do anyway. He transferred some items due for auction into the prep bay, but he couldn’t do anything else as all of the spreadsheets and search engines were on the computer Reg was currently using. So he went home, reading and listening to all of the news about Leonard Moscovich he could get his hands on, papering his living room with this new face, a face either terrified by the mobs he was trying to push through or foolishly grinning at some school photographer’s camera.
At the end of the week, all the staff members were called into the warehouse for a final review before the auditor filed his report. First, the sorters and support staff, then the readers, and lastly Sylvia and Ben.
Sylvia’s review was at noon, right as most of the office workers were headed to their lunch break. She parked a cart from the bullpen beside Ben’s makeshift desk and proceeded to the warehouse. Ben opened his mouth to say something encouraging, anything, but she didn’t even look at him as she left.
She was gone for almost an hour. Ben had completed the cart full of entries and was eating a sandwich, waiting. He almost didn’t notice her come in, she was
so much quieter than usual. After placing the sandwich on the table, he stood, brushing off his hands.
“Well?”
Sylvia just shook her head, staring at the floor and went over to the coat rack, taking down her rain slicker.
“Sylvia?”
“It went alright.” Her voice broke and she finally looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time in a week. Her mascara had run down her face and the tears were still standing in her eyes.
The anger that simmered against Reg started to boil in Ben’s head, and he started towards Sylvia, reaching out a hand to touch her face, but she pulled back. “God, Sylvia, what did that asshole say?”
“Nothing, it’s not important. I just—you won’t be seeing me for a little bit. I’ve been given a two-week suspension without pay. I’ll see you in a few days, I guess. Unless we run into each other at the market or something like that.” She turned and bolted for the door.
He ached to go after her, but he just knew that Reg would take his abandonment of the warehouse as a reason to fire him, so he sat again, slowly, and picked up his empty coffee cup, putting it back down after trying to take a sip. After his review would be a much better time to go find her, and it would give her a little time to calm down.
Reg sent him an interoffice memo that afternoon—instead of walking the ten feet to the break room or handing it to him as he went in and out with the cart—that his review was going to be that evening at six, an hour after his shift technically ended. Ben scowled at the paper, wadded it up, and threw it in the trash. That bastard had another thing coming if he thought he could break Ben’s insubordination at the last minute with tricks like that. Passive-aggressiveness only made him furious.
At six on the dot, Ben walked up to the door of the warehouse, paused, then without knocking, threw open the door.
“Mr. Grant, do you know why I’ve called you here?”
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