“You have three chances. The first, you lose your pinky. The second, your left thumb. The third, your right thumb. Are we clear?”
“…”
“Are we clear? Not answering will cost you one of your fingers.”
A nod.
“Good,” the man flung a book at him. It slammed against his face and fell open into his lap. It was English,” Did you write this?”
“No.”
The knife rose over his hand, vibrating above his fingertips.
He squealed and squirmed in his seat,” I didn’t! I swear to god, I swear to my mother, I didn’t.”
“Your name is Thomas Lemoyne, is it not?”
“Yes, yes, but I didn’t write this! It’s not mine.”
The tall man reached into his lap and flipped the book over, righting the cover. It read, below the title in scripted writing, Thomas Lemoyne.
“It’s not mine! There…there’s plenty of Thomas Lemoynes. It’s not an unusual name!”
“Strike one,” said the tall man. The knife raced downward in an arc, cutting cleanly through Lemoyne’s finger and sticking into the wood. He let out a scream, jerking his bleeding hand against the metal restraints.
“What about this,” said the man, tossing him another book. He didn’t look at it this time. He watched his finger jerk, bodiless, against the table, as the last jittering nerves died. He panted.
“What about this,” the man said again; there was not so much an excited elevation in his tone. He tapped the second book with the tip of his bloody knife,” Did you write this?”
Thomas Lemoyne decorated the cover in a flourish of calligraphic letters.
“No, no,” he sniffed, eyes brimming with tears,” I didn’t write it. I didn’t write anything. I work in an office, I make graphs, I sign things. I don’t write novels,” his voice croaked,” I’ve never written anything.”
“Strike two-“the knife drifted back towards his hand.
“Wait! Wait! L-look in the book. Sometimes they have pictures-“
“I’m not interested in story time, Mr. Lemoyne.”
“O-of the author! Sometimes they have pictures of the author!”
The knife stilled, and a curious look came across the man’s face. He titled his head to the side, withdrawing the instrument a ways. He nodded and picked up one of the books. The back cover was bare, if only for the exception of a synopsis, as was the inside of the front cover and the inside of the back. The knife returned to hover over Lemoyne’s hand.
“No pictures yet, Mr. Lemoyne.”
“T-try another one. Oh god, please, try another one. There has to be one.”
The tall man did. There was no picture.
“You’re trying my patience, Mr. Lemoyne.”
“I didn’t write it! For god’s sake, I did not write it!”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Oh thank god, thank heaven,” Lemoyne breathed, chest heaving.
The tall man’s face twisted into a grimace,” Who is it?”
“Dagstae, Mr. Bishop. We’ve located Lemoyne.”
The tall man, Bishop, cast a weary glance at the other Lemoyne. He arched his brow,” Very well.” He strode across the room and wrenched the door open, easing his grimace into a pleasant smile,” Where is he?”
“Canterbury, England, sir,” the man, large, bulky, and bald, raised an open book to Mr. Bishop’s face. On the back cover, clear to even the Lemoyne in the chair, was a picture of a pale, eccentric looking man, sporting dark hair and darker eyes. He was smothered in the company of several large, white cats. “Says so here, sir,”contuied Dagstae.
Mr. Bishop leaned closer, stroking his chin,” So it does, Dagstae, so it does.” He turned and planted the knife on the nearest table,” Take care of him, will you?” he jerked his head toward Lemoyne.
Dagstae nodded, and Mr. Bishop slipped out the door with a smile on his face.
“I don’t even like cats,” Lemoyne moaned.
“Shame,” said Dagstae, grabbing hold of his head, and with a twist of his wrists, Lemoyne was dead.
.:.:.:.:.
taptaptaptap
The cat arched her back and growled. The lights across the street flashed, and the woman looked on in fright, caught between the glowing embers of the unknown, and the…
“No, no, bugger all, no,” Thomas shoved his chair from the computer, yanking hard on a few strands of his hair. Grease came off onto his fingers. He hadn’t washed in weeks, no…days, well, maybe weeks. He couldn’t remember. Since Mrs. Anderson and her three-eyed cat had wriggled their way into his mind.
”Miaow.”
“Oh hush, Sophia,” he reached down, giving the Persian a quick stroke before shooing her off.
Damn, but this story wasn’t going to write itself. He swung his chair around, shuffling giraffe slippers against the thick carpet, and stood. He needed something to eat. Maybe that would help. Blueberry muffins perhaps.
Thomas wove his way between the multitude of cats (flawlessly white, every last one of them) toward the kitchen. The telephone rang just as he reached the fridge, and a few skittish felines took off into the safety of the living room.
“Muffins, muffins, muffins.”
“Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing”
“Why are there no blasted muf-“he picked up the phone,” Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Lemoyne? My name is--“
“Mr. Lemoyne? Oh no, you’ve got the wrong number, sorry.” Click.
New editors. It had to be, no one else bothered with introductions. Of all the blasted things that could call him. It was odd enough that the phone rang in the first place, Thomas rarely bothered to answer it. His social circle was small if not nonexistent, and his previous editors had learned that it was a much better idea to send him a letter or, heaven forbid, knock him up, rather than attempt a phone call. Thomas, as it were, only answered his phone once in a blue moon. Kept the bills down.
The phone rang again, but Thomas paid it no heed. He returned to the refrigerator.
“No blasted muffins.” The freezer door swung open and shut with a quiet ‘thud’. Thomas sniffed, wrinkling his nose, and glanced down at his attire. Moth eaten robe, sans belt, plaid pajama pants, and obtrusive giraffe slippers, all accented by a fine whiff of unwashedness and grease from his hair and face.
He’d have to get dressed and showered to go to the store. That, like answering the phone, was something he was quite good at avoiding.
Sophia slunk back into the kitchen and perched herself before the cat dish. The empty cat dish.
“Miaow!” she cried, voice reverberating with feline hunger.
Thomas scowled at her,” Fine then. I’ll do it. But I’ll have you know it’s more for the muffins than your tuna.”
Sophia purred and slunk away, tail held haughtily high in the air.
.:.:.::.:.:.
“He hung up, sir.”
“Hung up?” the man scowled in his seat. Erich Emmanuel Bishop was not the sort of man to hang up on,”What do you mean, he hung up?”
“He hung up. Said it was a wrong number.”
“Was it?”
“Well, no. I don’t believe so sir.”
“Where does the book say he lives, Dagstae?”
“Canterbury, England, Sir.”
“Hm,”long, spindly fingers found their way to Erich’s chin. He tapped it lightly, pursing his lips,”Very vell then. Ve vill go to Canterbury. Pack the bags, Dagstae, and inform Tor. Ve vill have to teach this Thomas Lemoyne a lesson in etiquette.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dagstae, nodding. He stepped out of the room.