The Face

don’t have a holy cudgel, Aelfric.”
        “You must have something. Cudgel, staff, truncheon, a sanctified broadsword glowing with divine energy. I’ve read about angels in this fantasy novel. They’re not airy-fairy types as fragile as fart gas. They’re warriors. They fought Satan’s legions and drove them out of Heaven, into Hell. That was a cool scene in the book.”
        “This isn’t Heaven, son. This is Earth. Here, I’m authorized to work only by indirection.”
        Quoting Mysterious Caller from their previous conversation, when they had spoken on the wine-cellar phone, Fric said, “ ‘Encourage, inspire, terrify, cajole, advise.’ ”
        “You’ve a good memory. I know what’s coming, but I may influence events only by means that are sly-”
        “-slippery, and seductive,” Fric finished.
        “I may not interfere directly with Moloch’s pursuit of his own damnation. Just as I may not interfere with any heroic policeman who is about to sacrifice his life to save another, and therefore raise himself forever high.”
        “I guess I understand that. You’re like a director who doesn’t get final cut of the film.”
        “I’m not even a director. Think of me as just another studio executive who gives notes for suggested revisions of the script.”
        “The kind of notes that always make screenwriters so pissy and turn them into drunks. They’ll bore your butt off talking about that, like a ten-year-old kid could care, like anyone could care.”
        “The difference,” said the maybe-angel, “is that my notes are always well intended-and based on a vision of the future that may be too true.”
        Fric thought about all this for a moment as he pulled the chair out from the kneehole of the desk. Sitting down, he said, “Wow. Being a guardian angel must be frustrating.”
        [310] “You can’t begin to know. You control the final cut of your life, Aelfric. It’s called free will. You’ve got it. Everyone here has it. And in the end, I can’t act for you. That’s what you’re here to do… to make choices, right or wrong, to be wise or not, to be courageous or not.”
        “I guess I can try.”
        “I guess you better. What’ve you done with the photo I gave you?”
        “The pretty lady with the nice smile? She’s folded in my back pocket.”
        “It won’t be any good to you there.”
        “What do you expect me to do with it?”
        “Think. Use your brain, Aelfric. Even in your family, that’s possible. Think. Be wise.”
        “I’m too drag-ass tired to think right now. Who is she-the lady in the picture?”
        “Why don’t you play detective? Make inquiries.”
        “I did make an inquiry. Who is she?”
        “Ask around. That’s not a question for me to answer.”
        “Why isn’t it?”
        “Because I have to abide by the sly-slippery-seductive rule, which sometimes makes any guardian angel a pain in the ass.”
        “Okay. Forget it. Am I safe tonight? Can I wait till morning to find that deep and special secret place to hide?”
        “First thing in the morning will be all right,” the guardian said. “But don’t waste any more time. Prepare, Aelfric. Prepare.”
        “Okay. And, hey, I’m sorry for what I called you.”
        “You mean earlier-an attorney?”
        “Yeah.”
        “I’ve been called worse.”
        “Really?”
        “Much worse.”
        “And I’m sorry for trying to track you back.”
        “What do you mean?”
        [311] “It seems like a sneaky thing to do to an angel. I’m sorry for star sixty-nining you.”
        Mysterious Caller fell silent.
        An indefinable quality of the silence made it different from any hush that Fric had ever heard.
        This was a perfect silence, for one thing, and it sucked away not only all the noise on the open line but also every whisper of sound in the library, until he seemed to have gone deafer than deaf.
        The silence felt deep, too, as though the guardian were calling from the bottom of an oceanic trench. Deep and so cold.
        Fric shuddered. He could not hear his teeth chatter or his body quake. He could not hear his exhalation, either, although he felt the breath rush from him, hot enough to dry his teeth.
        Perfect, deep, cold silence, yes, but more and stranger than simply perfect, deep, and cold.
        Fric imagined that such a silence might be cast like a spell by