Indigo(11)

I’m Nora Hesper, she thought. Shadows hung around her, doubting her name. She breathed heavily, struggling to push them away or draw them back in. Reveal herself. Become once more the person she had always been. I’m Nora Hesper, and there’s something …

She found control once more. She shrugged her shoulders and stepped from the darkness in the anteroom of Bullington’s office. Alone, she exhaled and closed her eyes, remembering what one of the monks at the Nepalese monastery had told her on the day she left.

“You carry the weight of the night with you, and darkness is heavier than light. Be strong. Never weak. Never give it a vulnerable face.”

“I’m Nora Hesper,” she said, louder. From behind the interior door she heard a surprised voice, but gave it no time to call out a challenge.

She turned the knob and stepped inside.

It might once have been a presentable office—the furniture was decent quality, with a large desk and a leather chair, a more informal seating area close to the windows, and several tasteful prints hanging on the walls. But such finery had been subsumed beneath old fast-food cartons and wrappers, sheaves of paper and files, discarded clothing, and bizarrely, several bikes in various states of dismantlement.

In the middle of the room, standing in front of the desk, was the man himself.

“I’m not open.”

Nora almost laughed. Almost. Because even in those three words, she heard and sensed something in him that she didn’t like. Immediately on the defensive, here was a lawyer who saw no need to provide a presentable office for his clients to visit—a man instantly suspicious of anyone who might seek his help.

“Don’t worry, I’m not hiring.” Nora closed the door behind her and plucked her press card from her pocket.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I’ve got a few questions. But it looks like you’re busy tidying up.”

Bullington glanced around the office, unconcerned.

“Moving your office?” Nora saw the mattress in the corner, almost hidden from view beneath twisted blankets and piles of clothing. “Or moving house?”

“None of your concern. No one comes here without an appointment.”

“I’d have made one with your assistant, but the outer office was empty.”

He snorted. “Just get out.”

“Or?”

“You’re trespassing.” He sneered as he skirted around his desk and pulled open a drawer. The gun was dark and ugly in his hand. He held it like a rock, not a firearm. He didn’t threaten her with it, not directly. Whatever he looked like, he knew the law.

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about the murdered kids. What’s your interest?”

Bullington froze, then tried the sneer on again. This time it seemed forced. “A lawyer on his own always scouts for work.”

“You on retainer?”

“None of your business.”

“I bet you are. I bet you’ve got a decent sum in the bank, paid to you by people you’d never dream of talking about. I bet you’re trying not to even think about them right now, aren’t you?”

Nora stared into his eyes. He glanced away, then moved around his desk again, dragging the gun’s barrel across the oak surface. It struck a bottle lying on its side and shoved aside a messy sheaf of paper. He moved as if he were unaware that his hand held the gun, that it scraped across the desk.

“This is not a public office. I don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave. I’m busy.”

“Weird definition of busy.” She backed to the door and almost mentioned the Children of Phonos. But that was not a name for Nora to utter. “I won’t be the only one asking questions, you know,” she said instead. “I’ll bet you have to be guarded about who you talk to. Careful about what you say. Or there’ll be repercussions.”

His lips pressed together, a mixture of anger and fear. But he said nothing.

Nora took one last look around the office, then left without another word. She moved through the reception area, exiting into a short hallway that stank of neglect and pessimism. She held her breath until she was down the stairs and unlocking the front door to get outside, into the relatively fresh air. She hadn’t entered the building that way. The locks took a while to open.

Once outside, she knew she wouldn’t have to wait long. Bullington would be on the move, packing what he needed to run. Maybe he’d go to the Phonoi first, maybe not.

Fifty yards away she found another alley, where she drew the gloom around her as a cloak. She wrapped herself inside it, slipped through the shadows, and emerged outside his office once more. Unlike the last time, she felt no hesitation in the darkness. The transition was almost instantaneous, a moment of weightlessness and timelessness during which memories assaulted her in a rush—her parents’ death and funeral; her journeys across Europe and Asia, learning, experiencing; that mountainside in Nepal, shunned by the monastery yet never, ever turning her back or giving up in her efforts to get inside.

Then she gulped in a breath and smelled the rank office. From behind the door, Bullington mumbled to himself.

Indigo pushed the door open.

The lawyer turned, crouched, and fired his gun twice.

She flinched, although there was no need. The bullets were swallowed by the night she brought with her. Perhaps somewhere infinitely far away they continued to travel, piercing a darkness never intended for the likes of humankind … but they did not touch her.